Broken
by chrisseverus
Summary: After the final battle, a new, much darker threat arises. While struggling with their inner demons, will Severus Snape and Hermione Granger find the courage to withstand? Canon compliant till the final battle, then AU. Please read and review. :
1. Every new beginning

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing you recognize.

* * *

**Broken **

by ChrisSeverus

**I.**

The first things coming back were sounds – sharp, piercing sounds. Then the feeling of being moved. Screaming white brightness found its way behind closed eyes. Finally a smooth gliding back into dreamless darkness.

When next he woke, he found himself in a bare room. A gloomy light filtered through high arched windows. His limbs felt like lead, much too weak to lift his head. He tried to open his eyes. _Don't lose consciousness again… don't … you're_ in _mortal danger!_ Great venomous fangs pierced his neck. An excruciating pain exploded in his head, raced through his veins. His body convulsed. He tried to scream, but no sound left his lips. Then a merciful darkness embraced him again and he knew no more.

* * *

"So… will… will he live?" the young woman asked without any emotion.

The gnarled old Healer who urgently murmured spells over the terribly wounded man on the bed looked up quickly, taking in her exhausted appearance. She looked done in, with dark shadows circling her eyes. They spoke of too many sleepless nights and too many days without mercy. A thin white line, left over from a curse, not averted but seemingly diminished traced its way from her temple to her chin.

"It looks like you brought him in just in time…" he said, stepping from the side of the bed leaving room for a fresh-faced nurse who now carefully applied some greenish potion to the torn neck of his patient.

_Good that she told us why he did what he did – otherwise we hardly would put that much effort into saving … him_, the Healer thought to himself.

"Though it's still possible he won't make it," he went on again. "But he seems to be the stubborn kind, fights like hell. And we'll support him as far as we're able."

From the corner of his eye he saw that she gave a thoughtful nod.

"That's good to know…" she whispered barely audible.

She looked at the man on the bed. His face was as white as the sheets he lay on. Dark, sweat-drenched hair stuck to his forehead. His hands rested almost lifelessly next to his body. He seemed so … fragile. He, who always was so powerful and in control. Never, not in her wildest dreams had she ever thought to find him like _this_. And never ever had she thought to feel for him like she did now. No, not hate or aversion, nor anger. Only, well, what was it? Compassion? Concern or even fear – for him?

She didn't know, couldn't and wouldn't find out what she felt for him right now. She was so tired, body and heart. She was almost dead on her feet.

The Healer shot her a quick glance, concern in his eyes.

"Miss Granger, I think you should rest. We will prepare a room for you …"

"No, thank you. I have to leave. I have to go back to Hogwarts. The Dark Lord might be defeated, but some of the Death Eaters still offer resistance. This is not over."

With this words she gave him a short nod and left the room.

The Healer stared at the closed door for a second. Then with an accepting shrug he turned back, checking his patient's vital signs again.

"No, this is not over. Not in a while," he murmured.

* * *

Hogwarts looked like a storm-torn battle ship from afar, drenched in blood, for the sun was setting behind the forbidden forest. Dark shadows nested in crevices and behind turrets. Windows stared like empty eye-sockets. But it still stood proudly and unconquered. And it was home, the only home left to far too many now. Those who could had left the country when the Dark Lord came into power again; others went into hiding and some found refuge at Hogwarts, which now was the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Many had died during the great battle which led to the destruction of Voldemort. And many more would die before this was over.

It was only seven weeks since the Dark Lord fell, but it felt like ages, filled with pain and sorrow. The Death Eaters were regrouping for a new and probably decisive battle. A new leader had risen. Still, nobody knew who he or she was. The Order fought on many battle lines.

But three days ago the fighting ceased.

* * *

Harry was sitting at a table in the great hall poring over some documents, when Ron entered. He looked quite downhearted.

"Mum's not recovering from Fred's death. She still cries her eyes out every night and there's no fight left in her. And nobody seems to know what to do about it."

Harry looked up and sighed.

"Seems like no one will be the same as before. We all wear the scars of this the rest of our lives."

He sighed again.

"Makes me think of Hermione. You know where she is? Or when she is coming back?"

Ron shook his head.

"I've no idea. We … we don't talk much since the Senex curse. I mean, she's 28 now!"

"Be happy she's only 28 and not 128 and probably dead!" Harry grumbled.

"Yes, yes I know and I _am _thankful. Great, that she managed a Protego Charm, so it was only ten years she got older … but still – she _is _older than me now and this … and this …. Well, she's changed so much…. I feel … I don't know … I feel a bit uneasy with her…". He squinted at Harry.

"I feel so bad about it, as if I let her down… But I can't help it."

He stopped speaking and looked sad and torn.

Harry squeezed Ron's shoulder.

"I see, Ron. Don't worry too much. I think she'll understand. Just be the good friend you once were before you two became … er, you know, _involved_ … I'm sure that's what she needs now. From you and from me, too," he went on briskly.

Harry turned to the clutter on the table and pointed to a map. "Here, Ron, look at this. Do you see anything … unusual on it?"

"No, what do you mean?" Ron asked.

"Well, I'm not sure what it means, but look at some of the names and places on it. They seem to fade away. As if they were trying to hide themselves…"

Run grunted. "Yeah, you're right. Funny."

A thoughtful silence fell between them.

"Where did you get this map by the way?" asked Ron after a while.

"Er, I found it in Dumbledore's office in a locked drawer. Perhaps something Snape left behind? He was the last to use that room…"

Ron nodded. "I think, we should take this to the others. Maybe one of them has an idea."

"Good idea. Maybe McGonagall can tell whether this was Snape's or Dumbledore's. Let's get going!"

* * *

A/N A thousand thanks to my beta, Celta Diabólica

_To be continued_


	2. Comes from some other beginning's end

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise.

* * *

**II.**

She stood wrapped in shadows at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, looking over towards Hogwarts.

It was cold. Outside and… inside herself.

Standing here felt like standing at the brink of life itself. Not even the rosy tinge of the evening sky smoothed the harsh contours of the castle, so forbidding, yet the only shelter now, it seemed.

She stared with unseeing eyes at the grounds where the final battle had taken place.

So many died.

Some of them quick.

Those were the fortunate ones.

Left were those whose vital force dwindled and petered out agonisingly slow.

Or those who lay screaming their pain into an uncaring sky, while around them the battle raged on.

The ground had been slippery that day, she remembered. At first, for a brief moment, she had wondered why. There had not been any rain. But then she smelt the blood, sickeningly sweet. Even now the bile rose in the back of her throat as she remembered the putrid stench.

To her left she knew, were the burned down ruins of Hagrid's hut.

And beyond that the Whomping Willow. She could hardly discern it in the gathering gloom.

Snape.

_No. I won't think of it now._

But the memories came rushing back, unbidden.

_We ran. _

_The Shrieking Sha__ck. _

_The __horribly wet, gurgling sound. _

_The __wheezy voice whispering, pleading_: "Look… at… me."

_The hammering of her blood in her ears. _

_The life that fled from his black eyes. _

She turned around and threw up.

* * *

Professor McGonagall looked at Harry with narrowed eyes. "And _where_ exactly did you, _find_ this map?" she asked.

"Er, here, in this office. There's a hidden drawer at the back of this."

Harry pointed at Dumbledore's old, battered desk.

"I was looking for some… things… and somehow happened to push this carving of a lion's paw on the edge of the desk. The drawer opened and there it was," he finished somewhat unsettled by McGonagall's furious glare.

"_Mr. Potter_, did it cross your mind - even for _one tiny_ second - that this… _thing_ could be full of dark magic and could put us all in grave danger? Did you check it for any spells, hexes, curses? Did you _not_ learn a thing from Albus' fate with cursed objects? And why, pray, did you not tell me _at once_ what you had found in _my_ office?" she bellowed, her voice rising in volume with every word she uttered.

Harry blanched, nervously fingering his glasses: "I'm sorry … I meant no harm. When I found it, I simply put it in my pocket and forgot all about it till yesterday when I came across it again. I discovered it the day we learned about Hermione's parents …"

Professor McGonnagall sank back into her chair, suddenly looking old far beyond her years, lines deeply carved into her thin face, the fury gone.

"I simply forgot…" Harry repeated miserably

"Yes, I remember that day, too," she whispered softly.

* * *

It was a ramshackle old house on the outskirts of Leeds, surrounded by equally dilapidated buildings with gardens which were a paradise for all kinds of weeds, cluttered with rubbish and rusty old cars. Grubby children played in the dirt, scattering and disappearing suddenly behind crumbling garden walls when the Aurors approached.

The shattered windows stared menacingly down at them, but the door opened surprisingly easily, evincing only a sad creaking sigh. Inside it was gloomy. Musty-smelling dust rose with every step they made.

"_Lumos_," one of them muttered.

They stopped short. Footprints. Dark. Bloody. So the anonymous letter they had received the other day was not some twisted cruel joke. Something terrible had happened here.

They looked around, not daring to go further in. The hall was shrouded in shadows, grey light filtering through dirty windows, that were half-covered with yellowed blinds. Some broken bits of furniture tried to keep themselves erect, leaning drunkenly against grimy walls. The wallpaper hung down in shreds. Three doors led off the hall. One was broken down, clinging desperately to one last hinge. It seemed to lead to the parlour. Another door on the left was clearly the one that led down to the cellar. Next to the stairs appeared to be the kitchen.

And then they saw it.

Right at the end of the hall.

Someone gasped.

At the landing, almost hidden in the gloom, lay a horribly twisted form from which a red stream had cascaded down forming a pool of congealed blood at the bottom of the stairs.

"Shit." Auror Jordan rasped. "That looks fucking bad."

"What do you think?" one of the others inquired, his voice squeaking high on the last syllable. "Seems like the house is empty?"

"Yes. Seems to be. But can't be sure. So let's check this first."

Jordan turned round to a tall dark-skinned man.

"Prester, please, check the back yard. Ribald and Grambling, you two search the ground floor. Michal and I will check the first floor."

With this he strode to the stairs and made his way gingerly up. Michal followed reluctantly.

The other three dispersed knowing they were to look for anything that might shed some light on these circumstances. They touched nothing, as the Muggle authorities would likely arrive soon and their visit must not be detected.

The body on the landing was so mutilated, so _destroyed_, that it was almost impossible to tell whether it was male or female. It lay on its back, empty eye-sockets staring blindly at the ceiling the face a horrible mask of pain and mortal fear. Some curling strands of long, chestnut hair clung to torn bits of scalp. The left arm hung at an unnatural angle down the stairs.

Michal followed its length with his eyes.

"_Oh, my gods!" _he gasped.

Jordan turned questioningly round. Michal faintly nodded towards the shattered limb.

The hand was missing.

When they found it, they also found the second body.

It was an equally horrifying sight. The missing left hand lay on top of the other body, its index finger pointing at something which was cut deeply into to the skin of the dead man's chest.

Jordan knelt down next to the broken form on the ground.

The words stared accusingly up at him.

_YOU brought this on them – Mudblood!_

He felt sick, bile rose in the back his throat. What madman, what cruel animal had done this to these poor people? Who were they, that they had to suffer such a horrible death?

A faint glitter caught his eye. There was a ring on the mutilated hand. A wedding band. Maybe it could give the answer to who this people were? He took the ring.

_Graham __5/10/1979. _

Graham.

Something stirred at the back of his mind, tickled in to being by this name. Hastily he took the left hand of the male body before him. Yes, there it was. The other wedding band. He pulled it from the ring finger.

_Laura 5/10/1979._

Graham and Laura.

"Michal, look at these rings. Graham and Laura. Why does this sound so familiar?"

Michal shrugged.

"Hm, I've no idea…" But then the blood left his face, and he stared wide-eyed at Jordan.

"Oh, no, no, no!" he stammered. "Jordan, this is the body of Graham _Granger,_ and the one on the landing is his wife Laura!"

* * *

There is no painless, gentle way to tell someone that they had lost their loved ones.

Harry had been the one who had told her.

He had sat down heavily next to her.

She had looked up from a book with a welcoming smile, brushing back a curl of her auburn hair which had fallen into her gold-flecked hazel eyes.

He would never forget how this sweet smile had faded when she looked at his face.

"Harry, what is it?" she had asked frowning, feeling a cold hand closing round her heart.

"Hermione. I'm so sorry … ." Why did it have to be him who had to deal out this brutal blow only a week after the Grangers had come back from Australia, only one short week after the end of the war?

"Harry, please, what is it?" she had pleaded, eyes wide and fearful.

He had tried again.

"Hermione. I'm so sorry… your parents are dead. Death Eaters killed them."

_No.__ No. No! _

_T__his is a lie, this is not true._

"Hermione, say something, please," he had begged

"How?" she had finally whispered, staring numbly at her hands.

"I'm not sure…" he had replied haltingly.

"Tell me! Everything! I have a right to know everything!" she had spat at him, suddenly furious, her eyes blazing.

So he told her.

Everything.

_YOU brought __this on them – Mudblood!_

And then the pain had set in. Excruciating, devastating, searing pain.

She had cried in his arms, until she could cry no more. For them and for all those who had suffered in this war and … even for the broken man who lay in a bare, forlorn back room at St. Mungo's, still fighting for his life.

After that she had never spoken of her parents again, or about the victims of the war.

Her eyes had changed that night.

Crushed faith, shattered dreams, lost hope and something unbearably sad looked back at you now, when you spoke to Hermione Granger.

_

* * *

_

A/N A thousand thanks to my fantastic beta Celta Diabólica!

_To be continued_


	3. It's not death a man should fear

_Disclaimer_: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise. The scene between Snape and Voldemort is almost entirely borrowed from JKR. No infringement is intended.

* * *

**III.**

He ran.

_Find him. Find him._

Curses cracked and boomed around him like lightning and thunder. The ear-splitting sounds of harsh voices shrieking powerful spells and counter-spells filled the air.

He ran, his heart hammering against his rib cage, gulping for air like a drowning man, hurling himself over the treacherous ground churned up by many feet, which had been trying to reach friend or foe, trying to flee and find shelter or raking its surface in the last throes of death.

_Shit!_

His foot caught on a crumpled body whose chest was a gaping dark-red cave and he almost fell, thus escaping another hex flung at him from nowhere.

_Looks like tonight everyone's intention is to kill me,_ he wryly thought, searching frantically for cover. _Which doesn't come as a great surprise actually… _

There, a few paces to his left on a knoll, he saw a dense coppice. He veered towards it and threw himself on the ground behind a small hawthorn, trying to get control over his laboured breathing.

He looked around, observing his surroundings through narrowed eyes. In every direction the battle surged back and forth like rugged waves of a deeply agitated, dark and hostile sea. Shadowy figures performed an insane hellish dance, highlighted in brief bursts of garish light from spells, curses and hexes.

Snape groaned. How in Merlin's name could he find a way through this melee unhindered and unhurt? How could he find _Potter_ in this chaos? Yet he needed to find him, urgently. Who else was there with just the slightest chance to stand up against or perhaps even _vanquish_ the Dark Lord? If Dumbledore had been right, there wouldn't be anyone else – only the _insufferable _Potter brat. Where could he be? Maybe he was in the castle or at least near it? Not knowing where else to look he first crouched, checking his bearings, and then sprinted towards the looming castle walls, barely dodging several hexes directed at him.

* * *

Harry sat in thoughtful silence, gazing through a window of one of the bays in Dumbledore's former office. His unruly jet-black hair stood in all directions, his glasses somewhat askew on his straight nose. He was tired and a drilling headache was building up behind his green eyes. Curled up in the window recess, he tried to conserve what little body-heat he still produced in his exhausted condition. Behind his slight back, a heated discussion had stopped quite suddenly. Everyone in the room seemed to draw a deep breath, gathering his or her own thoughts. For hours they had argued, theorized and generally tried to figure out the hidden meaning of the map he had found in Dumbledore's desk. Everyone came up with different ideas, but none of the offered explanations was convincing enough. Why for Merlin's sake were the names of some towns and villages trying to hide? Some notations seemed to have vanished entirely. What was the _meaning_ of this?

Harry sighed and turned to watch his friends.

Professor McGonagall stood behind Dumbledore's big desk, her fragile frame hunched over the map, scrutinizing every aspect of it once more. Arthur Weasley hovered behind her looking rather helpless. Slouched in his favourite place, a high-backed and softly cushioned dark-red armchair, George was embroiled in a private argument with Neville Longbottom. His gangly younger brother paced up and down in front of the hearth, murmuring something about 'strategy', 'war camps' and 'ambush' while scratching his patchy goatee, which he had tried to cultivate for some time now.

_No, not only friends, _Harry mused, _they're family._

*

"Hey," said Ginny, who had strolled over to Harry. "You look quite done in. Is something wrong?"

"No, no… everything's just fine. I'm simply tired, that's all," he replied with a crooked smile, looking up into her face, which was full of cares now.

"Really, everything's fine."

"Um, why don't I believe you then?" she queried with a frown. "You look like something a dog chewed on for a while…"

"Oh, _such _a lovely image!" he laughed, flashing a wide grin.

"But you're right – as always, I might add. there's actually something bothering me. What if someone planted that damned map there as a decoy for me or some other member of the Order to find? To lead us astray? To finally lure us into some deadly trap while we were trying to find out what secrets it holds?" He sighed. "Wish we could ask Snape if this thing was already in the drawer or if it was actually his – but we can't. He's dead. Dead and gone."

"In fact – he's not," said someone who had just entered the room in a gush of wintry air.

"Hermione!" Harry cried.

At that Neville jumped up, crossed the room in three hurried strides and enfolded Hermione in a bear-hug only to be jostled aside by Harry who hugged her in turn, then held her at arm's length to scrutinize her face.

"Hey, it's great to have you back! How are you?"

"Oh… grand." she said, smiling slightly.

Harry turned to Ron, who hovered somewhat undetermined at the back of the room.

"Oi, Ron, look who's there! "

Ron haltingly strolled over and mumbled, "Hullo, 'Mione… er, sorry,… I meant… _Hermione_…"

Exasperated, Harry rolled his eyes.

*

After they were through with hugs and 'hellos', they all settled down round a table near the fireplace. Professor McGonagall ordered some tea, laced with a bit of Firewhiskey – _just to warm the old bones,_ she grumbled, slightly embarrassed, when she noticed the enquiringly raised eyebrows of Molly Weasley – and some scones. While Hermione sipped her tea, the others filled her in. She, in turn, told them about her mission to an isolated village which was supposed to be the hiding place of some Death Eaters. But the buzz proved to be unfounded. Bill, who had been with her on this trip, would join them later; first he had to attend to a 'private matter'.

_Ha! – ' Private matter', my arse, _Ron thought, not a bit envious, oh no_._ _The private matter is Fleur, no doubt._

They chatted about this and that for a while until Harry suddenly asked,

"Er, by the way, what was it you said when you came in?"

"I said 'He is not'," she replied with a detached smile.

"_Who_ is not _what_?"

"Snape's not dead."

A stunned silence followed.

* * *

The wizened old healer contemplated the emaciated man on the bed who tossed and turned in his sleep.

Sometimes he had heard him murmur, sometimes he had heard him cry out loud, sometimes he had seen him clench his jaws as if to suppress any sound which might otherwise escape.

Six weeks he had now lain unconscious, caught in this dark web of terrible dreams.

They had done all they could to save this man's life, fought down dark magic, applied salves and made him drink strong potions, used nearly every known healing charm on him – and yet they had almost lost the battle. How Snape had managed to stay alive long enough to reach St. Mungo's was still a mystery to the old healer.

At first he was not happy with his task. Snape _deserved_ to die. Wasn't he the one who had killed Dumbledore, even if it was on the headmaster's own orders? Wasn't he a Death Eater? Well, perhaps not any more. But once he had been one. What cruel deeds might he have committed in that time? Who knew?

But then he had watched his patient closely, a man seemingly deeply wounded in his soul, fighting a losing battle against nightmares which haunted him, tears streaming down his face in his troubled sleep, whispering Dumbledore's name, begging forgiveness; or shouting, "No, _no_, you can't make me do this, _please_, don't make me do this, _please_ don't ask this of me…"

Only once had the healer found him sleeping untroubled. As he turned to leave the room, satisfied that his patient was resting at last, he thought he just might have heard a sigh.

"Lily…"

* * *

All of a sudden a wand pointed directly at his face. Snape skidded to a halt, raising his own wand in an attempt to protect himself.

"_Impedime...._ oh! It's you!_"_

"_Prote… !" _Snape stopped short, as he recognised his opponent's voice.

"Ah… it is you… Lucius," he panted. "Well met… _almost… _except for the circumstances."

"Severus, I was looking for you. Our Master awaits you at the Shrieking Shack – at the double! I have no idea what he wants of you, but be… on your guard; he's in… a… a black mood."

Snape questioningly raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, is that so?" he drawled. "Thank you for… telling me in advance."

With that, Snape Apparated in a blur of midnight-black.

* * *

He didn't Apparate directly into the Shrieking Shack. A few paces from its door he halted, drawing a deep shuddering breath.

_Well, looks like time's running out for you, _he thought bleakly, while patting his robes to make sure his wand was within reach. He noticed that his hands trembled. _What was it Marcus Aurelius, the Muggle Emperor had said? 'It is not death a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.' Come to think of it I seem to fail in both respects, don't I?_ he pondered, a wry smile curling his lips.

Then he squared his shoulders, strode to the door and entered, abandoning all hope.

*

"Ah… my faithful servant. So you've come _at last_," the Dark Lord greeted him. The room was only dimly lit; dust covered every surface. Next to the Dark Lord, Nagini coiled and swirled, floating in her enchanted sphere.

_Oh_, _how_ _I hate snakes. _ Snape could hardly suppress his disgust. Of course, it would never do to show his dislike of Nagini. Instead he smiled thinly.

"My Lord, I'm honoured to be called into your presence. Yet, I think I would be of greater value for our cause elsewhere. Our enemy's resistance is crumbling - "

"- and is doing so without your help," Voldemort replied. "You are an accomplished wizard, Severus, but we are almost there, even without your help."

"Let me find Potter. Let me bring him to you, my Lord. Please."

"Oh, I don't think so. You see, Severus… I have a problem."

Voldemort stood up, drawing the Elder Wand from his robes. He eyed Snape, a red gleam in his slitted eyes.

"Somehow it doesn't work for me, Severus. Do you have any explanation why that is so?" he asked softly, while scrutinizing the wand intently.

"My… my Lord?"

"No? You have no idea? Well, I think, _I_ can solve the riddle for you. You know, Severus, the wand responds to his _true_ master only…"

"I… I do not seem to understand. You have performed extraordinary magic with it."

"No," replied Voldemort. "Even though I _am_ extraordinary, the wand has not revealed the power it has promised."

Voldemort began to move through the room. His building rage radiated from him in almost visible waves.

Snape did not speak.

_What does he want of me? How can I placate him? I have to play for time. But how? _he thought frantically, not looking at Voldemort.

His dark eyes were fixed on Nagini, coiling and uncoiling, in her protective sphere.

"My Lord, please let me find the boy. He might be accidentally killed by one other than yourself – let me go and find the boy," Snape tried again.

Voldemort stopped only inches away from Snape.

"I said _no!_" he hissed.

Snape's eyes snapped to Voldemort's face in sudden fear.

"Severus," leaning in, Voldemort's thin lips almost grazed Snape's ear, "the Elder Wand will only obey the wizard who killed its last owner. And… it was you who killed Dumbledore, so – while _you_ live, the Elder Wand cannot truly work for _me_."

Snape quickly stepped back, eyes widening in recognition of the mortal danger he was in. He fumbled for his wand, but it was too late. The sphere with Nagini encased his upper body in a rush and he heard Voldemort hiss a command which could only mean '_Kill'._

Nagini's venomous fangs pierced his neck, almost crushing his windpipe. The poison dashed through his veins, searing and burning like molten lead. The room tumbled around him, losing all clearly defined contours, dark veils narrowing his vision. He tried to stop the fountain of blood gushing from his torn neck, but could no longer lift his hands high enough. His legs buckled, and he crashed to the floor.

Suddenly Potter was with him.

* * *

With trembling hands Hermione reached out to pass Harry a flask to gather Snape's memories, her gaze fixed on the dying man's face. His features looked as if carved from white marble, his prominent nose pinched, his dark eyes dull and sunken.

_Like a proud bird of prey helplessly grounded with broken wings, _she thought.

"_Look… at… me."_ She heard his heart-rending plea. Then his hand thudded to the floor and he closed his eyes.

*

_He had closed his eyes_. That was the reason that she had come back to the Shrieking Shack. Another was what Harry had told her about Snape's memories. He wasn't a murderer. He was and had always been on their side.

And he had_ closed _his eyes, not stared empty-eyed at the ceiling…

*

About two hours later, when she finally reached the room in which Snape lay, she discovered that he had moved slightly. One of his hands now rested on his chest, curled around his wand. She knelt next to him. The bleeding had somehow stopped, but still the pool of blood around him was shockingly vast. How could anyone survive this? Haltingly she put her hand to his face. Was there still some body-heat to detect? No, his skin was cold and clammy. The wound in his neck made it impossible to check his pulse there, so she reached for his wrist. Pressing her fingertips down, she tried to find a heartbeat. Nothing. Wait – no – yes, there it was again. A dull thud. Then another. There was definitely a pulse, faint, sluggish, few and far between, but a pulse. What, oh, _what _ to do now? Somehow he must have been able to cast a spell, something that had put him in a hibernation-like state, but he _needed_ _help_.

At once. Quick.

She fumbled in her pocket. Yes, there it was: the little light-blue stone she had found on top of her pillow one day during their hunt for the Horcruxes. A note had been attached to it saying, "_Use it in dire need. It will get you to St. Mungo's at once." _The script seemed vaguely familiar.

She pressed the stone into Snape's hand and activated it with her wand. Snape vanished at once, leaving only the pool of blood on the ground.

Hermione sighed. _At St. Mungo's they surely can help him. But.. will they? When they recognise Snape they might not try very hard to save his life,_ she thought with despair.

Suddenly her face lit up.

_There's__ still something I can do._

With that she sent out her Patronus to St. Mungo's. He could explain about Snape until she had time to look after him herself.

*

When she Apparated several hours later, she was in need of a healer herself. After leaving the Shrieking Shack, she was ambushed by some straggling Death Eaters. One of them had cast the Senex curse, which she could not quite avert.

Now she stood in a bare back room at St. Mungo's, considering the lean, dark-haired man on his lonely bed, who was still a mystery to her. She was glad she had saved him, but knowing what she knew about his life, she was no longer sure she had done him a favour.

* * *

_A/N Again many thanks to my beta Celta Diabólica, who is a constant source of good advice, inspiration and encouragement. Mistakes you detect are all mine. _

_Please Review!  
_

_To be continued_


	4. Darker Side

_Disclaimer:_ Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise.

* * *

**IV. **

Purple shreds of clouds chased over the harsh face of a full moon. Far below, trees were whispering among themselves; the wind rustled and sighed through leaves, and impatiently tugged on branches.

A slender doe stepped cautiously into the moonlit glade, ears pricked and eyes opened wide.

Beneath the branches of a great oak, a dark figure hid in the shadows, watching the tentative progress of the doe, step by halting step, pausing and warily sniffing the night air, then another step.

"_Sectumsempra!"_

A high keening shriek filled the night. Small animals fled headlong in wild panic from the glade. Screeching birds rose in a flurrying flutter of wings from their resting places.

The doe's legs buckled; dark blood splashed over the ground, splattered on grass, and sprinkled leaves, pooling round her body, seeping through the soil and thus sanctifying this place.

Deeper shadows emerged from under the lingering darkness of the trees, striding to the centre of the little clearing in which the doe lay dead. Cold moonlight washed over their glittering silver masks. Thirteen formed a circle round their sacrifice; thirteen held up their hands, offering the doe's life essence to the Mother of Shadows.

Forty-nine other equally black-clad Acolytes then appeared and stood in an outer circle around the little group in the middle.

"I summoned you, my Brothers and Sisters, to watch this holy sacrifice and to receive the blessing of our Eternal Mother, in whose arms we finally shall find sweet comfort and everlasting bliss," a deep voice intoned. "Her _enemies_ however shall find only agonizing pain, cold darkness, and utter despair _in perpetuity_!"

A low, menacing rumble greeted this announcement: "_Mors certa, hora incerta, dei mater umbrae!"_

"Children of Shadows, we delivered just punishment to blood traitors, Mudbloods, and non-believers alike. But there are still many left who will not yield, who will _not_ accept _Her_ reign," the deep voice cried out.

"My Brothers and my Sisters, tonight you shall go forth from this sacred place to mete out Our Mother's Holy Wrath to the unworthy, so that _She_ may reign over this land of Britain unquestioned and unconquered for ever more. _Mors certa!"_

"_Hora __incerta," _the congregation chanted in answer.

Ten Acolytes of the inner circle, each the leader of a small group of Death Eaters, or _Deadly Shadows_, as they now called themselves, individually approached the dark figure who had led the ritual, and whom they called the _Speaker,_ at the centre of the circle. He murmured a new assignment in each member's ear that would mean certain death to at least one unsuspecting Mudblood, unwary blood traitor, disobedient believer, or obstinate non-believer.

Then one black-clad figure after the other Apparated from the clearing, until only the Speaker and two others remained.

Those two knelt down, lowering their hooded heads. Two voices, one male, one female, rose in unison:

"Speaker, you bade us stay behind: thus we await your command and humbly seek your blessing."

The Speaker laid one hand on each bowed head.

"My faithful friends, our Eternal Mother spoke to me last night. You two are truly blessed; you shall become Her _Inquisitors_. Wherever you find the faithless, hunt them, capture them, and… _question_ them, so we might uncover the secret plans and movements of our enemies. Use every conceivable means to obtain this information. And you may rest assured, the more… _dolour you_ deliver, the greater is the chance of _their_ redemption."

Suddenly the Speaker gripped the sides of his head with his hands, murmuring, "Ah, the _pain_… I must leave, children. Do that which Our Mother asks of you."

He Apparated in a swirl of black and silver, leaving the newly appointed Inquisitors behind.

*

"Well, what do you think?" The bigger of the two climbed to his feet, stretching his back. Then he put off his silver mask.

"Uh, I think, he's completely off his rocker, but… he's… _useful_ for our own ends," the other, slighter one replied.

She also stood up, brushed the dirt from her robes, and stretched.

"He's a complete loony. '_Mother of Shadows'_, I ask you, what ridiculous crap. But he inspires the multitudes, doesn't he?" she went on.

"Oh, yes, he does. You have no idea. They hang on every word he utters, as if it was some holy writ. Come to think of it, for them, it might be just that."

_What a lucky coincidence it was__ that I ran into him in that shabby little pub in London, when the numbers of our followers were almost nil. How absolutely delighted was I, when I discovered…_ A smirk crossed the man's face._  
_

At that time, the Speaker was delivering a speech to the patrons, about them being the true children of the Great Mother, that they would be redeemed, that they would be rewarded for their trust in Her. He told them that their Mother needed their faith, their blood, their commitment and their undying love, so that She may vanquish Her enemies, who were trying to destroy Her, and with Her, all the wizarding world.

_I witnessed their reaction to him. _He shuddered as he thought back to the scene that was playing out before his inner eye. _It was absolutely frightening. If he'd pointed at some unfortunate being in the vicinity and said 'kill', it would have been torn to shreds._

"By the way, does _he_ know, Cerastes?"

"I think not. And _this _fact will give us absolute dominion over our enemies in the end, I'm sure."

"Well, well, well… nevertheless, we should be vigilant, or he might get out of hand… his thirst for blood seems to be quite indiscriminate. We _have _to protect our own… and finally lead the pure bloods back to power again; on that, I think, we both agree?" the woman inquired.

"Yes, we absolutely do, Aranea. But let's get back now. It's getting awfully cold, and I'm far too old for such nocturnal nonsense," Cerastes replied.

* * *

"_What_? Snape's _alive?"_ Harry exclaimed, gripping one of Hermione's hands. "_Why_… I mean, _how…?_ Yes, yes, I know, we didn't find his body, but… but… I _saw_ him die! _Where_ is he? And how do _you_ know…?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Well, if you stopped pouring out questions, you _might_ get some answers, you know?"

"Er, yes… right. – Sorry."

The others crowded eagerly around Harry and Hermione; only Ron stood back, scowling. _Oh? The greasy git of the Dungeons made it? Ugh, and everybody seems to be thrilled about it. Not me, to be sure. He's a killer, no matter what the others say… _

"Come on, let's sit down over there, then I'll tell you all about it."

Hermione waved them over to the round table in one of the recesses. Only Ron stayed behind. Nobody noticed. Hermione's tale often was interrupted by 'ohs' and 'ahs', but eventually they all knew how Snape had survived, through his own exertion and Hermione's timely help.

"Ah, this also explains your encounter with the Death Eaters later on," Harry said. "I've always wondered why you went back to the Shrieking Shack again, after we had left."

Across the table, Professor McGonagall considered Hermione over her reading-glasses.

"I wonder…" she mused, "_why_ you did not tell us back then that he was alive?"

Hermione turned her head and looked out the window, as if the answer somehow hid near the horizon.

"Well…" she replied, turning back, and starting to scrutinise her hands instead, a slight rosy tinge colouring her cheeks. "I… I though, he needed some privacy and… and I was afraid that people… might not… be so forgiving considering the circumstances of Dumbledore's death and all that…"

"You mean, you thought you had to protect him from _us_?" Harry asked incredulity palpable in his voice.

"No, not from _you_ at any rate. Well, you see, it was… the week when… when…" She closed her eyes. "When… you know… the murder… happened…" A single tear appeared at the corner of her eye and slowly rolled down her cheek.

"Oh… _oh_!" Harry exclaimed. "Of course. Right. I'm, er, sorry."

With a disapproving huff, Molly Weasley stood up and offered Hermione her hand.

"Come, poor lamb, let's get over to the fireplace… do sit down and don't you trouble yourself."

Molly gave Harry a look that spoke volumes.

"Here, dear, have a cuppa," she said offering a scalding-hot cup of tea to the younger woman who had snuggled up in a high-backed, softly cushioned armchair.

"Well, then," Molly murmured, "I'd better leave you alone now. If you need something, I'll be just over there."

She pointed vaguely in the direction of a sofa in red and gold tartan.

Wrapped in silence, Hermione stared with unseeing eyes into the flames of the crackling fire. Her friends who still sat at the round table in a recess of the office, except for Ron and Molly, began to talk about the stunning news they had just heard, their murmuring voices providing a highly appreciated background to her recollection of the dark… _stranger_ who once was her Professor.

* * *

Three days ago, he had opened his eyes. The young Healer, who one of the nurses summoned quickly, had asked him whether he knew where he was. He had frowned and then he had slowly shaken his head.

"Well, Mr. Snape, you are at St Mungo's. Good to see you back among the living," the Healer had told him with a warm smile.

"You fought a tremendous battle against many enemies, some really nasty venom, countless dark spells and, last but not least, a life-threatening loss of blood. We did what we could, but without your own potions and your incredible will to survive, we would have lost you. Oh, and it was really ingenious to cast that hibernation spell… absolutely ingenious…"

"M–my potions?"

"Yes, yours. We found them in your robes. It looks as if you suspected you might be bitten by a snake or another highly venomous animal," she replied to his hesitant question.

"It was… it was one of the options, the most… obvious one…" He frowned again, the vertical line between his dark brows deepening.

"How… did I… get here?" he finally asked, flinching. Apparently, he could not speak without pain.

The comfortably plump Healer told him then what she knew of how he happened to be in St. Mungo's, followed by a vivid description of how Harry Potter had vanquished the Dark Lord and thus spared all of them a truly dark and surely terrible fate.

_So the annoying __Boy Wonder had actually succeeded in killing one of the greatest wizards the Wizarding World had ever known… _

*

Hermione had not turned up immediately when they informed her about Snape's recovery, not sure about how to approach him, or even _why _or_ if_. She had visited him every now and then during his affliction – out of a sense of duty; at least, that was the justification she gave herself for doing what she did.

Wasn't he the one who saved their lives on numerous occasions? The one who sacrificed most of his adult life to the Cause and was so obviously tormented by… guilt, regret… or…? On the other hand, he wasn't a pleasant man to be around, the cynical, vengeful bastard, who had been cold-hearted enough to kill Dumbledore… Oh, yes, she knew why he had had to do it, but still…

Now, from the door of the recreation room, she watched him, opposing feelings still warring inside her.

He stood, oddly rigid, with his straight back turned to her, looking out of the French windows over the unkempt lawn dotted with the occasional tree in the inner courtyard. Mirrored in the glass she could see his face, half hidden behind some strands of his dark hair.

_Is__ there some silver threading through his hair now? Yes, but his face is the same, angular and sharp, and he badly needs a shave. There's something odd… why is the left corner of his sensitive – oh, what am I thinking? _she chided herself,_ – his really quite unspectacular mouth, drawn down? Uh… this scar is heinous. _

_*  
_

He had felt her stare and watched her warily in the mirroring window scrutinising him.

_Auburn hair, a __disaster really… slim, not tall, no, but… good proportions. Soft, hazel eyes. Dark, feathery eyebrows. Freckles. Freckles? Well, no rose without a thorn… Somehow familiar…? _

Hermione crossed the room and stopped one step behind him, hesitantly lifting her hand to… touch…? No. She checked herself, closing her hand, which still hovered in mid-air.

"Prof… Professor Snape?"

Slowly he turned round; his left eyebrow lifted enquiringly, his fathomless dark eyes claiming her gaze.

"Yes…perhaps…it depends on…who wants to know," he drawled in a low rumble.

Her hand dropped to her side_. _

_Oh, __Merlin… his voice… velvet stretched over sharp stones… _

She involuntarily flinched. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Ah, I see… We've met before?"

"You don't know me."_ No wonder, I'm sometimes __not… familiar… with myself. Ten years older, and an ornamental scar into the bargain…_

"Should I?"

"Well, actually, _yes_. I'm Hermione Granger, sir."

For a split second, his eyebrows arched.

_Granger__? _

He remained silent for some time, scrutinising her face, which made her slightly nervous, he noticed.

_Still the Terror of the Dungeons, __am I?_

"Ah, well… What happened?" he finally asked.

"Oh, a rather unfortunate encounter with some Death Eaters, one of whom knew an interesting curse I've never heard of before, or since… and I was a bit too slow with my defence. I was distracted, because I was worried about y…, well, um, that's rather beside the point, and… and anyway, I'm beginning to ramble, which must be quite tiresome for you… so, uh, that's all of it then…" A faint rosy tinge had crept into her cheeks.

"Undeniably. As I've come to understand, you saved my life and that was the implication of my enquiry, which was, in fact, quite obvious. Why would I be interested in your personal plights?" His lip curled.

"Yes. Indeed. Why would you?" _Some things _really_ never change…_

"Ah, forget the _how_; just enlighten me on the _why,_ as in: _why_ are you _here_? Looking for some kind of gratitude? Well, you're welcome to it, even though I think you should, truth be told, start working on your meddlesome personality," he went on, as if she hadn't said anything.

That he had managed to hurt her, he saw during the fleeting moment she winced.

"You're right – as you always tend to be," she replied. "Next time I'll just leave you to die."

Turning on her heel, Hermione left the room, head held high.

Snape turned back to the window, resting his forehead on the cool windowpane and closed his eyes.

_I'll never learn__… _He drew a deep, shuddering breath. _Why, for Merlin's sake, am I still alive? _

_You know why you're still alive,_ _you pathetic fool,_ a sneering voice replied,_ you were not _man_ enough to die. _

He hammered his fist against the window-frame. Some treacherous primeval part of him had not wanted to perish, had struggled on, had made him cast that damned spell, which had kept him alive long enough for Granger to save him.

_I am not __worthy of living. All those… things… I had to... I did... I _murdered_ the people I loved most. For that alone I deserve to die a hundredfold. I was so sure, so absolutely certain I wouldn't survive! _

_But why,_ another tiny, yet unrelenting voice asked, _did you then take those potions with you? _

_Damn_, he thought in desperation,_ didn't I crave for death and its sweet nothingness? No more guilt, no more anguish, no more shattered dreams and unfulfilled hopes, only an eternal empty void… but now… _

Realisation hit him like a lightning bolt.

_Simply t__o die would've been too… easy, indeed a gift, not a punishment. Thus,__ I have to go on, carrying the burden of knowledge of what I've done and of what kind of man I am, never being forgiven. The verdict is to live, and not only to live, but to live _with.

* * *

A/N_ '__Mors certa, hora incerta, dei mater umbrae', _is Latin for_ 'Death is certain, its hour not, divine Mother of Shadows'._

_Kudos to my ever reliable beta, Celta Diabólica__.  
_

_Please, review!_

_To be continued_


	5. Hunt

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise._

* * *

**V. **

Her hand touched his arm. Snape suppressed a sigh. The irritating little know-it-all had come back.

_Not easily discour__aged, obviously._

"Don't do this to yourself," she whispered. "Don't."

He turned around sharply, his dark gaze probing her concerned eyes, brushing her hand from his arm.

"What do you know of me?"

Then, all of a sudden, his shoulders sagged and he averted his eyes.

"I'm… Why are you still here?"

"I'm not sure."

Hermione half shrugged and turned away to watch some sparrows hopping listlessly through the drooping, shrivelled leaves of one of the trees outside in the courtyard.

"Maybe because I… sat with you through your nightmares."

He looked up sharply.

"They were fever-induced, no doubt," he muttered.

"I don't think so."

A fleeting shadow crossed her face, he saw, leaving it strangely vulnerable. For a short while, a poignant silence fell between them like gentle rain. When she spoke again, it was so soft that he had to lean in to hear her.

"It… it eats you from inside; tearing like a wild animal, all sharp teeth and claws. Sometimes it's like a knife, thrust deeply and then slowly, ever so slowly turned. It never stops."

Smiling bitterly, Hermione closed her eyes for a second.

"It is a lie," she continued, hugging herself, as if to fend off coldness only she could feel.

Snape's eyebrows quirked and he inhaled audibly, but he didn't speak.

"You see, there _are_ things time will not heal…"

He bit his lower lip and flinched; she seemed so very far away and lonely, even though she stood near enough for him to feel her body heat. He would have reached out to her, if he could remember how.

"You know, then."

She moved to stand in front of him, only inches away. Their gazes locked.

"I do."

* * *

"Hermione?"

She came back to herself with a start. Looking up, she saw Harry hovering next to her armchair, a worried expression on his face.

"Hey, you were light-years away. Are you alright?" _Uh, what's wrong with me? She's clearly not alright – and I feel somehow… elated? Am I going mental?_

"I – I think so," she answered frowning. "What's the fuss over there?"

"Oh, er, Bill came in. Molly said not to bother you… However,"– _Bugger, does it always have to be me? _–"there's… bad news we need to talk about, I'm afraid." He shrugged apologetically.

Hermione grimaced, and then stood up with a sigh to follow Harry, who had turned to join the others at the round table again.

"… mutilated like the six others the Aurors found in the last two weeks," Bill was saying.

"Who's doing this? Death Eaters?"

"Well, that's at least what the Aurors at the Ministry think, Ron," Bill replied.

"Hm, but what do _you_ think? Maybe _somebody_ we all know has a hand in this…" Ron sneered.

The words '_somebody with already blood-smeared hands_' hovered unspoken in the air, but were nonetheless understood by all present.

"What? You don't mean… Snape?" Hermione slowly shook her head and frowned. "What's _wrong_ with you? I told you he's at St Mungo's?"

"See? Did I say '_Snape_' anywhere along the line? But his name's the first that pops up anyhow, eh? Just _think_ about it, has anyone been watching Snape _all_ the time?"

Neville wrinkled his brow and nodded thoughtfully at this.

"Maybe," Ron huffed, "he just went out now and then, hanging out with his Death Eater buddies and killing people on the way. Who knows? You can say what you want. I still think he's nothing _but a killer_!"

For a split second, an unbelieving silence followed Ron's declaration. Neville looked faintly surprised; the others displayed various states of shock on their faces. Then a tumult of angry voices erupted, everyone speaking over the others.

"What?"

"You don't mean…"

"Are you …"

"…that!"

"Ron!"

"…mental?"

"Silence!" Professor McGonagall's commanding voice rose over the din.

Almost at once, all of them quietened down, barring the occasional mutter under someone's breath. Only a red-faced Ron stood, still fuming, at the head of the table.

"_Mr Weasley_," Professor McGonagall said with a long-suffering sigh. "Will you _please _settle down? This will get us nowhere. Let us talk this through calmly."

The others murmured their consent and watched Ron expectantly. Harry even stood up and made a hesitating step towards Ron, asking him with a gesture to calm down.

"Hey, mate, y' know better than that, eh? We all know why he had to act the way he did. Even if we're not… _enthusiastic_ about the way he handled things, I don't think there's an actual reason to suspect him…"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "And, as Miss Granger already has explained to us, Professor Snape was unconscious until quite recently."

Ron shook his head, lips pressed together.

"Sorry, but you won't convince me," he then forced out. "He's… he's… not to… ah, I don't know!"

He turned and stalked from the room, banging the door shut behind him.

"Oh, my," Harry groaned, running his hand through his already mussed up hair. "What's gotten into him?"

* * *

Those who remained discussed what to do next. They decided that Bill and Mr Weasley should contact the Aurors who were investigating the gruesome murder cases all over Great Britain. Perhaps they could work together, exchange information and maybe shed some light on the mysterious incidents.

Bill had then told them of a rumour he had heard in the Ministry. People spoke in whispers about a sinister cult, all the while throwing furtive glances over their shoulders as if terrified of being caught speaking about it. The words 'blood', 'sacrifice', 'body-snatching' and worse spread among the fearful staff. They were convinced that no one was safe any longer.

The members of the Order could not put a finger on it, but Harry and Hermione were not the only ones who had a gut feeling about a link between the murders, the new cult and perhaps even the map. It was essential to look into this affair closely. To do this, they had to split forces. Professor McGonagall would do the research about ancient blood cults from all over Europe, and Hermione would look into recent developments. Harry and Ginny suggested visiting the sites of the different crimes to get a first-hand picture of what had happened there. Perhaps they would find something the Aurors had overlooked. The others would try to figure out a pattern to the vanishing landmarks on the map and their assumed connection to the murders. They hoped Ron would assist them, if he should ever stop sulking.

There was only one problem left: Professor Snape.

St Mungo's administration had informed the Ministry of Snape's whereabouts as soon as he was transported there.

Hermione had known Snape was at the top of the Aurors' 'most-wanted-list'. She had also known there was not enough time to inform Harry about Snape's situation and to ask him for help. Therefore, Hermione herself had to intervene on Snape's behalf; immediately she dispatched a letter to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, explaining the circumstances of Dumbledore's death and Snape's role as a double agent. Aurors then interrogated Dumbledore through one of his portraits (there was one in the Department of Wizarding History) and he confirmed Hermione's evidence.

The Wizengamot had kept silent about Snape, mainly because it was not certain he would survive his severe injuries, and because if he did he would be of great value for the pending trials of captured Death Eaters. They had to protect their prime witness. Thus, a private hearing 'in absentia' was conducted, with the result that the Wizengamot sentenced Snape to probation. The killing of Dumbledore was interpreted as 'assisted suicide' under duress and exceedingly abnormal circumstances.

The Order of the Phoenix had not the slightest doubt that Snape was in grave danger; not only from those who would disagree with the verdict once it was know to the public, but also from those straggling Death Eaters who would definitely try to achieve what their former Master had left undone. Maybe even the new cult was after Snape, who knew?

So, what to do about him?

It fell to Hermione to enlist him in their task force. No matter what other people – and unfortunately this included Ron – thought, in the present situation the Order could not afford to do without a powerful and accomplished wizard such as Snape. They also needed to find out what, if anything, he knew about the map.

* * *

An owl reached Snape at St Mungo's one lonely Friday afternoon during teatime. It was a tiny, slightly dishevelled, brown owl with great yellow eyes. It hopped confidently from the windowsill to his left arm, held out its leg and hooted questioningly.

_An owl? With a letter? For __me? _

He carefully took the scroll and offered some breadcrumbs to the little bird. It somewhat condescendingly took one or two of the crumbs and then perched on his shoulder. He frowned. What an impertinent little thing. When he opened the letter and saw who had signed it, he knew why the bird was so irritating. It was _her_ bird.

_Granger. _

He cupped his still-unshaven chin with his long-fingered hand and scratched at the stubble.

_What does she want now? A meeting? What for? Oh_. _Urgent_ _things to discuss? Urgent for whom? Certainly _not _for me…_

However, he was intrigued. The annoying know-it-all had definitely changed – if for the better only time would tell. His thoughts wandered back to their encounter in the recreation room. A senex curse had hit her, she had said.

_Interesting_.

This was a rare curse, because it had serious disadvantages for the one who cast it. A curse, no matter which one, could not be cast without a price to be paid by the caster. The senex curse, he knew, not only aged the target of the curse to the point of death, but also randomly took life experiences from the caster and left him with great blanks in his memory. Sometimes it subtracted special skills as well. The moment the curse was cast those life experiences and skills would become an integral part of the target's personality, although tempered by his or her character. At least, that was the theory. All known victims had died only minutes after the curse had hit them.

_Except Granger_.

Should he go out and meet her? On the one hand, he was not much tempted to leave the shelter of St Mungo's and its soothing seclusion from the worries of the world. On the other hand, nothing was lost if he should really meet her again. He could always leave if she bored him or annoyed him. Fleetingly he wondered what the 'urgent matter' could be, but mostly his thoughts were occupied by the look on Granger's face when she had spoken to him about feeling … guilty.

Annoyed at himself, he shook his head, then took up a piece of parchment and scribbled an affirmative answer to her request. The little owl fluffed its feathers, fully aware of its importance while Snape attached his letter to its leg. When he was done, the tiny bird fluttered out of the window into the darkening sky.

*

The Wizarding café was situated near the river Thames. From its arched windows, one could watch ships sail majestically by. Little boats hurriedly wound their way between larger vessels. Now and then, a horn signal hovered in the air. Sea birds raucously rose and fell as the breeze carried their feathery lightness. On silky-blue water, sunshine glittered like molten silver and gold. Beyond the river, on the other bank, trees burst in the first light green of an early spring.

Inside, the café was comfortably gloomy. Dark wooden beams supported the low ceiling and rested heavily on white washed slightly crooked walls. On the wooden floor, carpets in warm colours were spread at random. Small round tables with cosy chairs were generously arranged through out the room. A lively fire breathed its most welcome heat from a wide fireplace. In the air, the scents of cinnamon, hot scones, black coffee and old wood mingled.

Snape had chosen a table in a recess where he could watch the entrance. She was late. Impatiently he began to drum his fingers on the tabletop. All right, he was too early. Anyway, where was she? Why had he come at all? The collar of his robes chafed his still tender neck. It had not helped that he had shaved either. His skin felt raw. His nerves too. Where _was_ she?

The instant he decided to leave, the door to the café opened and Hermione came in, exactly at the appointed time. Framed in the doorway she hesitated a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. The light of the low afternoon sun embraced her silhouette in a golden hue. His heart skipped a beat. She looked around, saw Snape, and presented him with a dazzling smile. His heart skipped another.

_What__'s wrong with me?_ _Obviously_, _I'm not as well as I thought I was… _

He scowled. She came over, still smiling, and sat down across from him.

"Professor Snape, how good of you to meet me."

"Yes. I wonder why. I'm probably still under the influence of some of the potions they made me drink at St Mungo's."

Her eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement.

_Irritating._

"Oh, I'm glad to see you, too."

He cleared his throat.

"Well? What do you want? I'm not going to waste the whole day on your whims."

She still smiled.

_Very irritating._

"Very well, then." She cocked her head and

_smiled__, damn it._

His scowl deepened.

"I'll try not to take too much of your time."

Hermione then launched into a description of all the things that had happened during the weeks of Snape's coma. She told him about the Order's views on the murder cases, and described to him in detail what the Order had planned to do next. After that, she asked him about the map.

Snape slowly shook his head.

"I don't know whether it was in the desk while I was… there. At least, I never came across it during that time." He narrowed his eyes. "It could've been deposited there later, but it is also possible that it's been in the drawer for ages."

"Hm." She pursed her lips and then sighed. "It would've been too good to be true if you had known something about it." She paused. "However, there's something else I need to tell you."

Hermione filled him in on the new cult and its supposed connection to the murder cases.

"You see?" she finally said. "The… the Order's _mission_ is not fulfilled. The Wizarding world is not yet a safe place for _all_ wizards and witches. We have to go on with our task, don't you think?" She leaned in eagerly, searching his face for a positive answer.

"Oh, stop that pompous crap," he sneered. "There's absolutely nothing _we_ have to do."

His gaze held hers.

"Approximately twenty years of my life I've given to the so-called _cause._ Moreover, I nearly lost this very life while working for the _greater good_. I owe _nothing_ to the Order, or to anyone else for that matter," he snarled.

She lowered her gaze and contemplated her hands. The smile on her face had long since gone.

"There once was a time," she said simply, "when you would've rather chosen the right way, instead of the easy one."

She raised her eyes to his again and saw, for a fleeting moment, the hurt in their deep blackness.

This time, he lowered his gaze, his face an expressionless mask once more. Then his left eyebrow quirked and he turned his head to look out of one of the windows. Thus, some minutes elapsed in silence. When he turned back, he looked as if he had finally discovered that fate was inexorable.

"What do you want?" he asked for the second time that afternoon.

"_Please,_ help us," she replied, smiling again.

This awakened a warm glow in his chest.

_Odd._

"Professor McGonagall said you could stay in your old quarters if you want."

"I will think about it. Nothing promised. Another cup of tea?"

"That sounds wonderful."

He was not at all sure if she meant the offered tea, or what he had said.

*

An hour before Snape entered the café, two other dark-clad figures, a man and a woman, had come in. They had settled down at an unoccupied table in the back of the room. After they had ordered tea, the balding man had cast a disillusionment charm, for they preferred to remain unnoticed. Deeply embroiled in their conversation, they had not noticed Snape at all when he had come in. However, during a short lull in their discussion, the slender blond woman had languidly let her gaze wander around the room. Suddenly she had leaned forward and grabbed the forearm of her broad-shouldered heavyset partner.

"Cerastes, don't turn around, but I think, I see Severus Snape sitting at one of the other tables," she hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Aranea. Snape died three months ago."

"Then that man over there's a very convincing copy."

Cerastes threw a furtive glance over his shoulder.

"Oh, _bloody hell_, you're right, it's him."

He arranged himself so as to have a better look at Snape. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Aranea had pressed her lips together in cold fury.

"I'll kill him, the double-crossing son of a_ bitch_," she snarled.

"Hush." Cerastes warningly held up a hand. "I know exactly how you feel, but please try to calm down. Be patient. Your time will come, you'll see. But for now, let's wait… I'm curious what Snape's up to this time…"

He had barely stopped talking when the door opened and Hermione came in. They watched her walk over to Snape.

"Ha, it's already getting interesting," Cerastes whispered. "I wonder what Snape wants with _St_ Potter's little Mudblood."

Sitting too far away, they were not able to overhear what Snape and Granger had to discuss. However, it was evident that this was not merely a social call. Cerastes and Aranea knew very well that here a situation had presented itself to them which they could probably use to their own ends. They watched and waited patiently. Finally, the Mudblood got up, said something to Snape and left the café. Snape leaned back in his chair, deeply lost in thought it seemed.

"_C'mon_, Aranea," Cerastes whispered urgently. "This is our chance to add a priceless gem to our collection of dead Mudbloods."

Aranea grinned wolfishly in answer. They got up and hurriedly left the café to follow the Granger girl.

*

Snape came out of his reverie with a start. Something had distracted him. But what? He frowned deeply. The door had opened and closed. Granger. Then a second time. Nobody. _Oh, shit_. He jumped up. Something was _very_ wrong. He rushed out of the café into the gathering darkness of the early evening. In which direction had she gone? Left? Right? _Bugger_. He decided to go right. He ran along the empty alleyway, the sound of his hurried steps echoing from the surrounding buildings.

Light that pooled around street-lamps only temporarily relieved the growing darkness in between. No one to be seen. Wait. Over there, two or three hundred paces away, he noticed a sudden bright flash. Had someone cast a spell? He doubled his speed, his heart hammering in his chest. But when he finally reached the spot, nobody was there. However, he detected the distinctive change in the air, which inevitably followed the use of magic. Someone had Apparated and someone else had cast a Shielding Charm. Obviously, Granger had tried to protect herself, but she had been abducted nevertheless. Something in his chest contracted.

What to do now?

_Once, you would have chosen the right way_…

The die was cast.

This time he would not be the prey.

This time he would be the hunter.

* * *

_A/__N _Without my beta, Celta Diabólica, where would I be? Please, review :-)


	6. Riddles

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognize._

_**Broken** is nominated for the **OWL Awards 2008**, category** Angst**. **Please vote for this story** on **www dot owl dot tauri dot org** (Pen-name: Tristan, aka ChrisSeverus). Voting runs from 7 Feb to 6 March. Thank you so much for supporting Broken!! :-)  
_

* * *

**VI. **

Harry painfully clutched Ginny's shoulder and whispered urgently, "Wait! Don't go on. Something's moving inside."

Ginny took a hasty step back to take cover behind a wide maple tree. Warily she stole a look around the tree trunk and, in fact, there lurked a shadow behind one of the windows. She shivered involuntary. Ice crystals seemed to spike the air all of a sudden, needling her lungs with every breath she took. Something about the dark hulking silhouette, highlighted by a flickering greenish glimmer, was very… _wrong_. It looked as if it was twisted and somehow… _misshapen._ What was this _thing?_

Harry had crouched down to take cover himself, his wand held firm in his right hand. It was the third crime scene they had visited today; and with dusk approaching irresistibly, it was almost dark now. The first murder scene had been around Glasgow, the second near Edinburgh, and the third was right here, in the middle of nowhere. It was an old cottage surrounded by a primeval looking hawthorn hedge. For hundreds of years lords and peasants alike planted hawthorn around their dwellings to keep out evil spirits. This one had obviously not done its duty.

Not visible from the rutted track that led off the country road, the ancient building seemed almost to cower beneath heavy, low-sailing clouds. Overhead, a seabird cried out its loneliness in the empty vastness of the imminent night. Loch Voil was near.

Harry shuddered. He felt slightly nauseated. The moment they had checked on the first crime scene, a dull headache had slowly crept up behind his eyes. Now it had reached a level of intensity that nearly blinded him.

Meanwhile night had silently descended like a shroud. Only the razor-sharp crescent of the moon shed some bluish, cold light.

All of a sudden, the faint shimmer inside the cottage vanished. The two observers beneath the maple tree froze in fearful anticipation. Utter darkness and total silence now enveloped the inside of the small building. Some seconds, which felt like ages, elapsed. Nothing happened.

Ginny shifted nervously, rubbing her sweaty hands down her jeans-clad thighs. At that moment, the door swung open with a faint slurring sound.

"Harry, _Harry_!" Ginny exhaled in a whisper, "What's happening? Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't come our way."

_And if it does, we'll surely mange. Not the first difficult situation we're in. But it's creepy… Feels somehow _very_ wrong and profoundly… _evil_._

Ginny could not suppress another shudder that had nothing to do with the nightly temperatures.

A black shape, shadowy robes billowing around it, seemed to glide over the threshold, as if not touching the ground at all. Turning around, it closed the wooden door with a soft thud. Beneath the pulled-up cowl of the cloak, its face remained hidden in darkness. Was the mysterious figure malformed or was it carrying something or … someone over its left shoulder? It was impossible to make out in the faint light of the moon. Nevertheless, the shadow's outline appeared to be human. Still staring at the closed door that was doused in frosty moonlight, the strange figure shifted the weight upon its shoulder. A faint sound came from the door, like a soft sigh. It felt as if the temperature suddenly dropped far below freezing.

_O, Great Mother, both Dark and Fair, Divine Lady, be in all hearts and on the tip of every tongue. For your time has come again – as it does with the beginning of each moment._

The deep voice was booming inside Harry's skull, speeding up his pulse in a red rage of blood and violence. He had to balance himself with his hands on the cold ground, his head lolling, his mouth gaping wide open. Desperately he tried to suck in the chilly night air. Ginny fell to her knees next to Harry, attempting to steady him.

"What is it? What is it? _Harry_?" she whispered, holding Harry, her eyes yet drawn to the dark form in front of the cottage. It touched something at the door.

_What is done cannot be undone!_

From Harry's throat came a low, menacing growl. He was suddenly tense like a lurking panther, Ginny completely forgotten. Jumping up, he forcefully wrenched away her hands that clutched his jacket, trying desperately to stop him, and sprinted towards the cottage. Alarmed by the sudden sound of Harry's quick strides, the dark figure swirled around and Ginny glimpsed a jutting nose. A loud crack ripped through profound silence and where there had been deep darkness a second before, only glittering frosty moonlight was left behind.

Harry crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

'_The idea of a 'wickerman' is significant in both Irish legend and the second branch of the Welsh __Mabinogion* __to men being enticed into a house, built only for this purpose, which is then set on fire, thus immolating them as a sacrifice to the Gods. There is also a reference by _Lucan_, __to three Celtic deities: _Taranis_, the God of Thunder, is said to have been propitiated by burning; _Toutatis_, the tribal protector, by drowning and _Esu_s, the God of War, by hanging. _Esus_ is mythologically similar to the Germanic/Nordic deity _Woden_/_Odin,_ also associated with hanging from a tree.' _

Professor McGonagall sighed and turned to another page of the ancient volume, which recounted the Roman attack on the Druid stronghold of Anglesey, where they had found altars "soaked with human blood". Boudicca, she read on, obviously had liked to impale her victims during her rebellion in 60 A.D.

_Lots of blood here_, she thought, _but no real evidence of a link between those ancient incidents and the recent murders throughout the land_.

She yawned; for hours on end, she had struggled through piles of ancient tomes. The muscles of her back cramped and burned like fire. It was definitely time to go to bed. However, something in the next paragraph suddenly caught her undivided attention all over again.

'_Celtic human sacrifice becomes evident in the body of the man placed in Lindow bog in the first or second century A.D. The Lindow man was almost certainly a ritual sacrifice; he was strangled, hit on the head, and had his throat cut, in quick order, then surrendered to the bog. This pattern fits the "three-fold" death referred to in medieval Irish and Scottish tales.'_

Three-fold death? That struck a chord. What was it that Bill had told them about the murders? Yes, he had described them as particularly cruel. Professor McGonagall remembered him saying something about 'a lot of blood, cut throat, wound to the head'. However, there was more to come.

'_As for the evidence of Welsh and Irish tales about human sacrifice, the second part of the Welsh __Mabinogion__ tells of _Efnisien_ jumping into the cauldron, which restored the dead to life.' _

Oh.

That was bad, _very_ bad. The entire wizarding world had eventually heard about Voldemort's "resurrection" out of a cauldron. Did this connect the Death Eaters to the murders? Or was it an indication of a union between the new cult – what ever its purpose – and the erstwhile followers of Voldemort?

Deeply troubled, Professor McGonagall slowly closed the large, musty-smelling book. What did all that mean? She sighed again. As soon as possible, a meeting of the Order had to be summoned. Perhaps Bill and Arthur Weasley had already had the chance to talk to the Aurors and could therefore supply further news concerning the murder cases. She expected Harry and Ginny to be back tomorrow evening too.

She stood up, stretched and doused the lamp at her desk. Better to go to bed now. Moreover, there was nothing useful she could do in the middle of the night. Most likely, this would be her last chance to get some sleep for a long time to come. Fleetingly she wondered where Hermione was. She should have been back hours ago.

As Professor McGonagall tiredly walked towards her bedroom, a sharp knock at the office door stopped her short.

_Goodness gracious, who could that be in the middle of the night?_

With a distinct feeling of foreboding, she went to open the door.

* * *

The map would not reveal its secrets. Ron grunted and turned the map for what felt as if the hundreds time. Neville had entirely given up on solving the riddles of the map long ago and had fallen asleep on the couch in the common room. Ron scratched his head, then his goatee, but still could not make heads or tails of the thing.

_Bugger! Give in, you little shit!_

He glared nastily at the map, but it was notably undaunted by his outburst. With a last contemptuous look at it, he leaned back and let his thoughts wander back to his conversation with Harry, after he, Ron, had, admittedly, very dramatically left Professor McGonagall's office. He had stormed off to the rooms he shared with Harry and Neville, slamming the door of their quarters shut behind him. Sometime later Harry had found him there still fuming, walking up and down the length of the room and kicking at various things that were scattered around the room. Harry had nonchalantly strolled in and walked over to the couch. He had sat down and begun to read a Daily Prophet he had picked up from the end table. Ron had continued to storm through the room, but almost imperceptibly had slowed down with every turn, throwing furtive glances at his friend all the while. Finally, he had stopped in the middle of the room, spreading his hands.

"OK, say it. I'm a complete arse, and I managed to make a giant fool of myself!"

"OK. If that's what you want: You're a complete arse and you managed to make a giant fool of yourself," Harry had replied without looking up from his paper. Ron's arms had dropped to his sides.

"But – who knows why? – even if you mess up like you did back at McGonagall's, you're still my friend," Harry had continued, still hidden behind the paper. "Is there a chance" – he had lowered the paper then and eyed Ron appraisingly – "you might tell me what's bothering you so much that you managed to make a giant fool of yourself?"

Ron's shoulders had sagged and he had grinned sheepishly. He had flopped next to Harry on the couch, and stretched out his long legs.

"Uh, dunno what's up with me. Just … could strangle someone. See, Mum's crying all the time when she thinks nobody's watching. Fred's dead and all the others, Lupin and all … and nothing's like before and then I hear Snape's alive, I mean, _Snape_ of all people, and … and then there's the thing with 'Mione … we didn't even … y' know …" Ron blushed furiously and strangled a cushion for want of a real neck. "I just … everything's a bloody mess … it's … I … it's _gotta_ be someone's fault … and then … this … about Snape … Ah, I really dunno … just, just … y' know," he had ended miserably.

Harry had nodded sagely. "Yeah. What a mess."

They had sat in companionable silence for a while, and then Harry had clapped his hand on Ron's back saying, "How about a pint or two in Hogsmead, giant fool?"

_Yep, we really tied one on_, Ron thought fondly.

His gaze returned to the map.

_Wait. What's that?_ He sat up straight, all attention now._ Looks almost like a circle… Just have to connect those places with a line… yes, definitely a circle. Glasgow … Lammington … Edinburgh … Perth … Inverlochlarig … and back to Glasgow. Hmm. And if I connect the villages and towns … no. But … if I do it like this, then I get a five-pointed star inside the circle. I think, I've seen this symbol somewhere before, but can't remember… Better go to bed now. Could ask Harry tomorrow. He'll be back then._

_

* * *

  
_

A dark figure stood in the doorway.

"Minerva," said a once-familiar voice, now no longer smooth but ragged like broken glass.

"Severus."

McGonagall's inner conflict about how to face Snape pervaded even this one word. She supposed his eyebrows twitched and his lip curled. It was too dark in the hallway to be sure. However, that would be his most probable reaction to her curt greeting. Oh yes, she knew him well. She suppressed a sigh.

"What brings you to my office at this ungodly hour?"

"Won't you ask me in? That would be the polite thing to do. Or have manners at Hogwarts been lowered to such a … regrettable standard since I … left? What I have to tell you is nothing I care to discuss in the corridor. Furthermore, it is cold."

Stepping back, she opened the door wide.

"Severus, the polite thing to do would have been to wait till morning before you inflict yourself on an old woman." This time it was Professor McGonagall, who curled her lip.

Undaunted, he took three long strides into the room, and then turned, robes billowing, to face her again. Before he could utter another word, he heard her say, "I'm glad, you're alive."

Snape swallowed what he had been about to say, averted his face and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second as he released a pent-up breath. Raising his gaze to hers again, he quietly said, "I'm sorry, Minerva – and not only for disturbing you tonight."

Minerva McGonagall had known this secretive man for more than twenty-five years, and it had never happened before that he had lowered his defences far enough for her to get through to him. She caught her breath at what he let her see now if only for a fleeting second: a tortured man crucified inside his body. The moment flashed by so quickly that, afterwards, she was no longer sure it had truly happened. Snape had already drawn himself up again; the walls shielding his soul were as impenetrable as ever.

"However, there's no time for this now. Minerva, Hermione Granger has been abducted … I fear the worst."

"What? No!" McGonagall interjected, lifting her hands to cover her mouth.

"We _must_ act at once," he urged, clenching his fists. "I came only seconds too late. I could not prevent it."

Snape started pacing up and down McGonagall's office, tension radiating almost visibly from his body.

"I tried to follow them, but there was no trace left behind. They shielded their wand signatures."

"But what can we do then?" McGonagall asked, distraught.

"I fear that it already took me too long to act," he rushed on as if she had not said anything, "because first I had no idea what to do. But then … You see, Miss Granger told me about the murders. So I finally Apparated to the murder sites she had talked about. I … I guessed, no, _hoped_, one of these spots would be … so remote as to provide a perfect hiding place… Minerva, I have the nastiest feeling the new cult is behind Miss Granger's abduction … I'm just back from the most isolated spot in Granger's report. Alas, I did not find her, but _what_ I found instead … Look for yourself. I left it outside your door."

Snape strode back to the door, went out and came back in with a black, bulky bag. He began to open it.

"Severus, wait. I think it's high time we alert the rest of the Order. There's also something _I_ have to tell all of you."

She saw him clench his jaws, but he nodded his agreement all the same.

"Be quick about it. I don't think we have much time left," he growled.

* * *

Hermione opened her eyes into total blackness. She tried to sit up, but discovered that her hands were bound in front of her body and her head banged against something that was at first soft, then solid. She tried to spit out the rag that had been put into her mouth, but could not, because an additional cloth covered her nose and mouth tightly. Nevertheless, she tried to cry out for help – but only a muffled sound escaped. Groping around with her bound hands, she found that she was in a very confined space with cushioned walls above and around her. The air was stale and it was difficult to breathe properly through the gag. A wave of panic washed over her. Where _was_ she? She desperately tried to concentrate on her other senses, straining to hear something, anything. But she was surrounded by profound silence. She could only detect a sickening smell, like … _uh_, congealed blood. She retched, fighting another panic attack, but did not succeed. Her heart threatened to burst, hammering inside her chest; her head throbbed and ached, and the skin at her sternum burned like fire.

_Don't panic. Don't. Panic. Breathe. Breathe! _She began to count backwards, again and again, frantically trying to control her heart: _ten-nine-eight-seven-six…_ _don't think, just breathe, slow down, slow … down_.

Gradually the panic attack ebbed.

_OK. Looks like I'm buried alive - no, do _not_ panic again. Harry and the others will surely look for me when I'm not back at the appointed time. But … will they find me? They won't know where to look. Nobody knows where I am. So – I've got to free myself…_

A soft creaking sound interrupted her thoughts. She held her breath. Yes, there it was again. Like someone walking directly above her prison. She tried to scream through her gag and hammer with her bound hands against the ceiling of the box – coffin? – she was in. _Hear me! Please, hear me!_

Snape stopped short, straining to hear. Had there been a muffled sound? A rustling? He held up his wand to better see his surroundings. But the room was empty, except for a strong box and a broken down chair at the back wall. He hesitated for a second, but then, with a smoothly flowing flick of his wrist, he cast a Homenum Revelio, just to be on the safe side. Nothing happened. Nobody there. He shrugged. Perhaps rats under the floorboards. He looked down and frowned. Something had disturbed the light dust on the wooden floor. He crouched to have a closer look. There was something dark, apparently a wide circle, drawn on the floor. He touched it with a tentative finger. Wet. Dark red. Sticky. _Blood_? He sniffed at his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the sickening sweet, metallic smell. Yes, this was blood. Still crouched down, he heard another thudding sound below- Sounded as if the rats were having quite a party down there. He stood up again and went to the chest. It was big, iron bound and made of dark, opulently adorned wood. The carvings seemed to writhe alive with the shadow play induced by the soft light of Snape's wand: Snakes that devoured each other or slithered out of gaping mouths of skulls; inhuman, contorted faces screaming soundlessly; broken, tortured bodies. Snape slitted his eyes in disgust. This was not exactly the thing to be used as a bedside table.

The lid of the huge box was closed and secured with a padlock. He snorted. _Ridiculous_. He muttered under his breath and the lock gave way. The lid opened on its own with a creak. Warily he stepped closer and peered in.

Hermione heard the sound of the steps fading away. Whoever it was was leaving the room underneath which she was confined. _Please! I'm here! Don't leave me, please, don't leave me. _However, it grew unbearably, inexorably silent. And except for her utter despair, nothing else was left behind.

* * *

A/N My gratitude belongs to my diligent and thorough beta, Celta Diabólica.

*The _**Mabinogion**_ is a collection of eleven prose stories from medieval Welsh manuscripts. They draw on pre-Christian Celtic mythology, international folktale motifs, and on early medieval historical traditions. (www dot sacred-texts dot com and Wikipedia)

_To be continued_


	7. Stepping to the bad side

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognize._

_

* * *

_

**VII.**

_O, Great Mother, both Dark and Fair, Divine Lady, be in all hearts and on the tip of every tongue. For your time has come again – as it does with the beginning of each moment._

*

A stream. There must be a great stream near, roaring, gurgling, rushing. But there was no stream, he remembered, only Loch Voil. _What was it then?_ _Ah, and the pain…_ _It's blood rushing in my ears. What happened?_

Ginny saw Harry frown. It looked as if he had come round at last. She sighed in relief. He still lay on the ground where he had crumpled when he had been trying to reach the strange figure at the cottage door. Ginny had put her warm jacket under his head. She now shivered with cold and the after-effects of stress.

"Harry? You all right?"

He groaned in answer. His eyes fluttered open and he managed to sit up. Resting his head in his hands between his drawn up knees, he groaned again.

"Ahhhh, my head."

"Harry, what happened? Do you feel all right?" Ginny urged again.

"That voice, didn't you hear that voice?"

"What voice? I … I only heard a … a sigh on the wind. It probably _was_ the wind in the trees." Ginny knelt down in front of Harry. "What was it, Harry? What did you hear?"

Tentatively she reached out to touch his bowed head, but drew her hand away hastily as if she had touched a hot cauldron when he abruptly threw his head back to stare at her.

"He called upon the Mother. He _dared_ to invoke the Great Mother!" Harry snatched Ginny's upper arms in a vice-like grip and shook her violently. "And," Harry suddenly roared, "he sealed the door. He _sealed_ the door! HOW DARE HE!"

"Harry, _stop_ it, you're hurting me! What mother? _Stop it!_ What are you talking about?"

"What? Where … Ginny?"

Harry looked suddenly disorientated and totally lost, like a little boy all alone in the woods.

"Oh, Ginny, what … what have I done? I'm sorry, _please_, I'm so sorry." He buried his face in his hands, shaking all over.

Ginny hesitantly drew him into her arms and stroked his unruly hair.

"It's all right, Harry," she soothed. "Don't you worry. Must've been the shock you've had. It's all right."

Over his head, the young witch stared at the moonlit cottage. She was afraid, so very afraid, for she had seen the blood-red glimmer in Harry's eyes, when he had gone off.

**********************

Again, the Order of the Phoenix had assembled in McGonagall's office: the Weasleys, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, among others, and, newly added, a dark presence in the farthest corner of the room.

Snape.

He was at the receiving end of furtive glances, some hostile, some curious, some fearful, some contemptuous and two or three with something like respect. Only Molly and Arthur Weasley had come over to murmur friendly words of welcome and to clasp his hand in greeting. Yes, and Potter had come to him as well. At first, Potter had approached him haltingly with a somewhat calculating expression on his face. But then he seemed to have come to a decision, squared his shoulders, and smiled in welcome.

"Good to have you back, sir," he had said, looking up into Snape's dark eyes.

Snape had inclined his head and cocked one eyebrow. "Potter."

After another welcoming nod, Potter had then strolled back to his friends.

*

Even after all the others had settled around the table, Snape stayed behind in the shadows, his face an unreadable mask, his arms crossed in front of his chest like a bulwark against everything.

"What's he doing here?"

"Since when's he back?"

"Did you see the scar? Makes his _pretty_ face even prettier, huh?"

"Why's he here?"

"D'you know what he wants?"

"The _audacity_ of him to turn up here at McGonagall's…"

"_Ah_, but you _do_ know we need him..."

All of that and more he heard muttered or hissed in a stage whisper. They had turned their backs on him and ignored him pointedly. Nothing new in this kind of behaviour towards him. He clenched his jaw in frustration. Why had he come back, indeed? But then, hazel, gold-flecked eyes that sparkled at him in amusement flashed by before his inner eye. _Well, maybe an … explanation for irrational behaviour …_ _if an inadequate one_ …, he sneered at himself. _Delusions, you old fool._

With narrowed eyes, he scrutinized those that now assembled around the table: Weasley and Potter – subtly changed. They were still the annoying young men on the outside, but with old men's eyes. Potter was all intense but restrained power. Weasley, slumped in his chair, was filled with fury, burning low like a peat-fire, only waiting to flare up in a roaring blaze. Longbottom had changed, too. Confidence enveloped him like an invisible suit of amour. No longer the insecure, shy young man he had once been. At the other end of the table sat Arthur Weasley, his red hair streaked with silver, deep lines bracketing his mouth; he tried unsuccessfully to hide the trembling of his left hand. Next to him sat Molly, thinner, with dark circles under her eyes, which spoke of the shed and, much more so, of all the unshed tears during the past months.

Snape drew a deep breath while he let his gaze wander around those sitting at the table. None of them had stayed untouched by the war. They had – well, how to put it? – _grown? _They had gained a sad kind of wisdom and they had obviously all achieved some kind of an inner strength. There seemed to be an unshakable confidence in their ability to deal with whatever might come along in the future. Yet, at the same time, they had paid bitterly for all that, he knew from his own experience, for all of them had lost something irrevocably: their … innocence.

_A war makes culprits and victims of all of us simultaneously. _The vertical crease between Snape's brows deepened even further.

*

Minerva McGonagall, who stood at the head of the table, cleared her throat. "Dear friends, I've called this meeting, because I've been informed of something awful that has occurred. Hermione" – all eyes snapped in anxious attention to her face – "has been kidnapped and" – McGonagall swallowed hard – "is probably dead by now."

Nobody said anything. Only an almost inaudible sigh rose from somewhere. Then all eyes turned, as if drawn by an invisible string, towards the dark corner in which Snape leaned with his back against the wall. He pushed himself forward and strode into the circle of light that illuminated those around the table.

"I would not go so far, Minerva, as to say she is dead. We know she is in great danger, that is true, but I have reason to believe she is not dead." Snape paused for a second, all eyes still rigidly fixed on him. "Understand this: things are now in motion which cannot be undone, I fear. However, there _must _be time to exchange information. This could be vital to saving Miss Granger _and_ to putting an end to the new cult and its murderous attempt to gain control over the Wizarding world."

Ron jumped up.

_As was to be expected, _Snape thought wryly.

"You don't expect us to sit on our hands while Hermione is in mortal danger, do you?" he roared, leaning menacingly forward, supporting himself with his palms upon the tabletop.

"Yeah," Neville chimed in, also jumping up from his seat. "How do you know that she's not dead and that there's enough time to … to rescue her?"

"I actually do _not_ know for sure," Snape spat, "whether there _is_ enough time. However, what do _you_ propose we should do, or where we should begin to look? Any ideas?"

Ron sat down heavily. "Er, n-no."

Snape glared at Ron and Neville for a moment before he snarled, "Let us first see what we already know and let us think about how to proceed afterwards. Therein lies our only chance of success, don't you agree, Messrs Weasley and Longbottom?"

"I think Severus is right," Arthur Weasley said, ending the short-lived up-flare of tempers with his words. He turned towards Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, you said earlier that you found out something that disturbed you very much. Won't you tell us what that is?"

Professor McGonagall recounted then what Snape had told her, and what she had read of the "three-fold-death" and about the life-restoring cauldron. This triggered an uneasy feeling of imminent danger in all of them. Bill then added his news from the Aurors, which were not substantial. Two Aurors led the investigation of the murder cases. Auror Jordan River had talked at length with Bill, but had to admit that their enquiry had come to nothing so far. However, they strongly suspected that there was a connection between the former Death Eaters and the new cult of the 'Mother of Shadows', a name whispered in fear.

So far, the Aurors' suspicion based on information provided by some trustworthy witches and wizards, who had overheard one Scorpius Natterer, a suspected ex-follower of Voldemort – nobody had been able to find hard evidence against him yet – in a pub, boasting of the rise of a new force and the involvement of his Death Eater friends therein. '_They lead it, they do, don't they? Way up into the highest circles of the cult they got,' _he had been heard saying. '_We pure-bloods will rise to power again, you'll see!'_

However, the Aurors had not managed to find further evidence of a connection between the former followers of Voldemort and the cult. They had yet to discover one of their meeting places or even other members. Auror Michal Letalis was looking into this and was long overdue with his return, as Auror River had mentioned worriedly.

"Perhaps I can shed some light on this unpleasant business," Snape offered. "I think I've found at least one of their meeting places."

He steepled his fingers and centred himself for a brief moment.

"As Professor McGonagall has already told you," he went on, "I've searched for Miss Granger at the sites where the murders had happened, which was the only logical thing to do. From Miss Granger's descriptions of the murders, I deduced that they were not merely random killings by lunatics, but killings with a purpose, killings that were probably part of a ritual. What Professor McGonagall has discovered in the _Mabinogion_ has now quite confirmed this view."

Snape began to pace the room. The eyes of those sitting around the table followed him, some of them with a slightly bewildered expression in them, as if they wondered what had happened to the habitually taciturn Professor and who this unusually talkative stranger might be.

"My reasoning," he continued after a short pause, which was filled with breathless anticipation by his listeners, "suggested that the sites were used not only once, but rather on a regular basis to carry out … some kind of … _mass_ that included these ritual killings. At every site, I found hidden markings on doorposts, inconspicuous signs on walls, and once even the remnants of a bloody circle in the middle of the room. All that strongly indicates that those who perpetrated this definitely have stepped into the bad side."

"What kind of … of signs?" Ron interrupted. Snape frowned annoyed. "I … I have a reason to ask," Ron hastily added. "So, _please…_"

Snape contemplated Ron with slitted eyes. "I found the '_Pictish V-Rod',_ which is a symbol of death, carved in one doorpost; the words _'Great Raven of War'_ in Atbash Cipher* on a wall; the symbol of the '_Left Hand Path'_ drawn on the floor … What is it you know, Mr. Weasley?"

"Um, did … did you also find this?" Ron put the map on the table. Snape's eyes grew wide.

"Yes, at the last site that I've visited. You … connected the murder sites with one another … which, in that way … form an inverted pentagram, the symbol of black magic and dominance." He looked up at Ron. "Very good, Mr. Weasley. I never thought I would see the day when you would use your brains for something other than immature pranks."

Ron smiled widely, because he had also seen the reluctant respect in Snape's eyes.

"Yes, it is as I suspected," Snape went on. "At the last site – a very isolated cottage – I've found objects that support the notion that this cult is about the darkest imaginable kind of magic, a magic that draws on the … _Otherworld_."

"No!" Professor McGonagall, who stood next to Snape, grabbed his arm at which he arched his eyebrows and threw her a quizzical glance.

"Er, sorry Professor, but … but what is this – how did you call it? – this _Otherworld_?" Neville asked, his gaze darting back and forth between his former professors.

Professor McGonagall and Snape also exchanged a quick glance.

"Well, let me explain then," replied Professor McGonagall, who, to the dismay of the others, suddenly looked very old and somehow … _defeated_.

"The Otherworld is a realm utterly beyond our understanding," she hoarsely whispered. "It is a place, where chaos rules and dark powers, completely uncontrollable by us, dwell. Some, blinded by their greed for power, have tried to use them, to force them to obey, to bend them to their will. Not one has ever succeeded. You see, the creatures of the Otherworld whisper of a never-ending life, of the fulfilment of all your wishes, of the giving of inconceivable powers for those who listen. In the beginning, they will bestow certain powers onto you and follow your every whim, indeed. That is how they lure you deeper and deeper into their net of lies and deceit. Then … they betray you. First, they slowly, almost unnoticed, corrupt your body, then they twist your mind and in the end, they crush your soul. However, not even death will free you from their clutches. They bind you to their ranks in all eternity or so it is said..."

A shudder ran through all present.

"Finally free of the one who invoked them," Professor McGonagall went on, "they roam this world unhindered and unchecked seeking to subjugate us all, to shackle us to them, body and soul, for they need us. They live off our magic like a vampire lives of the blood of his victims. It draws them to our world as water draws a thirsting man in a desert. With every ounce of our magic, theirs multiplies a thousand fold."

She paused again and looked intensely at the spellbound faces of her former students.

"The Wizarding world knows no grater threat than this. None. Our ancestors had to pay dearly to seal the doors to the Otherworld forever. Many powerful witches and wizards gave their lives to achieve this. But even if all this took place almost a millennium ago, we cannot lessen our vigilance. The danger for our world still exists. Remember, no one can keep the powers of the Otherworld under control! Therefore, it is utter madness to break the First Law of Magic. It is forbidden, under pain of death, to open the doors to the Otherworld. Not even Voldemort was unhinged enough to try it."

"But someone obviously did," Ginny blurted out. All eyes snapped to her, which made her blush. "I … I mean that's what Professor Snape just said, isn't it?"

"Yes. That's what I said." Snape's black eyes searched Ginny's, as always giving her the feeling that he knew her innermost secrets, even without using Legillimency. "Is there something we should know, Miss Weasley?" he asked.

"N-no. Not really, Professor Snape," Ginny spluttered hastily.

Snape's left eyebrow twitched, but he did not dig deeper. _There is something odd. I can almost smell it …_

He hesitated for another second, and then turned back to reach under the table to fetched a black bag.

"After this excursion into the less enjoyable aspects of our world," Snape said, obviously quite unmoved by Professor McGonagall's explanation, "here is what I found in a strong box in the cottage which is, I might add, equally depressing."

With these words, he emptied the contents of the bag on the table. A jumble of things clattered on the tabletop: several curiously curved knives, hemp ropes, a wand, black robes and wooden masks, a kind of idol made of rowan wood, chalices made, by the look of it, of human skullcaps, and a big, black, leather-bound book.

Harry suddenly leaned forward, a malicious expression contorting his face.

"What is this? How did he get these things? They're not his!" he hissed under his breath.

Ginny clamped her hand down on his shoulder to pull him back. "Harry! Stop it!" she whispered urgently.

Harry relaxed almost at once and leaned back again. "Ah, you're right." He shrugged, as if nothing untoward had happened. "Interesting, but … probably nothing to lose sleep over …"

He saw perspiration springing up on Ginny's upper lip as she worriedly scrutinized his face. With a crooked smile, he took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

None of the others had noticed this little incident. Everyone was concentrating on the objects lying on the table.

"Oh," said Luna thoughtfully. "My father once told me about these things." She pointed at the curved knives. "These are Athames, double-edged daggers that are used to draw a magic circle, and this" – she took one of the hemp ropes – "is a Cingulum, a cord or girdle worn by witches performing a blood sacrifice."

"Correct, Miss Lovegood. It seems your father was a _thorough_ teacher," Professor McGonagall chimed in. "And I may add that this" – she held up the wand – "is a Blasting Rod, a wand made from either Blackthorn or Yew, cut from a graveyard as a tool to curse. In higher, ceremonial black magic, this wand is dipped into a fire and aimed at a place where a demon is supposed to appear as a threat after a series of invocations." She carefully laid down the wand. "_Great Merlin_, it really looks as if someone has crossed a border. Where will all of this lead?"

Snape spread his hands, palms up to encompass all the things that lay on the table, and said, "All these objects – especially this book, which is a very rare one, a so-called 'book of shadows', a grimoire used by certain dark wizards to record their rituals in – are used in black masses. It is my belief that Miss Granger is meant to be the next sacrifice in such a ritual. Moreover, I am quite sure the cottage will be the place for this upcoming black mass, because under the sign of the pentagram, I found an inscription painted at the door that was only visible through moonlight. It was an invocation of the '_Great Mother',_ which seems to be the central figure in this cult. The mass will probably take place during the new moon, which will be in three days. _That_ is why I think we still have time." He threw a quick glance at Ron and Neville before he continued. "I thought it prudent to seal the door with a counterspell and a Cronnekdhu, a dried toad that is normally used as an amulet to control the minds of men. I found one in the strong box. Nobody, except me, can enter the cottage now."

Harry slowly stood up. "So … it was _you_ we saw last night," he said with an enigmatic smile. "I should've guessed …"

Snape frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ginny jumped up, throwing a nervous glance at Harry. "He means, sir, well, he … We were near the cottage last night and … and saw you there, except, we didn't know it was you. We thought … we thought it might be a ghoul or something …" With another nervous glance at Harry, she slumped down again. She didn't mention Harry's breakdown or his odd behaviour afterwards.

"How _very_ flattering … a ghoul …" grumbled Snape. Then he drew himself up again. "This is my suggestion, then. We concentrate on this cottage and keep watch there. When they show up, together with Miss Granger, I hope, they are bound to fall into our hands. What do you say?"

Arthur Weasley nodded. "This makes sense. I cannot see another way to proceed right now. So let's follow your plan, Severus."

The others thoughtfully nodded their consent and then split up into little groups to discuss all the news among themselves in low voices.

*

Snape retreated into the shadows of the room again. He contemplated Potter from afar. Something in the young man's attitude had subtly changed during the meeting. It was nothing a casual observer might detect. On the outside, Potter looked exactly like the easygoing boy others had always imagined him to be. Nevertheless, Snape felt a coldness creep up his spine. The Potter over there was … somehow … not the one everybody knew. This one exuded an unholy air of deadly menace.

**********************

Perspiration beaded her forehead, trickling down her temple and her cheek, pooling in the hollow of her neck. The air was stifling. Every laborious breath she took felt like liquid fire down her throat, burning her lungs. Now and then, she vainly struggled against her bonds, her attempts getting weaker and weaker with every try. Bit by bit she began to drift in and out of consciousness. Memories, which she no longer was sure were hers, began to flood her brain: she saw herself torture people who, reduced to tears, begged for mercy, which she did not give. She saw Voldemort from afar, as if through a turned-round looking glass. She experienced the rush of elation and the kick of boundless power when she cut the throat of a helpless whimpering Muggle. She passionately kissed a man whom she did not know, but who was, nevertheless, strangely familiar, feeling the tingling heat of arousal deliciously spread throughout her body. She stood in front of a mirror in a ravishingly beautiful dress, ready to go to a ball, but the face in the mirror was not hers.

Tears stung behind Hermione's closed eyelids.

_These are not my memories, real as they might appear to be, _she thought in growing desperation._ They cannot, they _must_ not be mine … but whose, then? Whose? _

Again, she struggled to free herself; again, she had no success whatsoever. She merely felt her strength fade further.

_Not long now. Why struggle against the inevitable? I'm going to die down here. Just have to give in. It's easier then…_

Darkness washed over her and pulled her irresistibly into a maelstrom of nothingness.

* * *

*_Atbash Cipher_ means _writing backwards_. Therefore, Snape would have found the words '_raW fo nevaR taerG'_.

A/N A thousand thanks to my diligent and always inspiring beta, Celta Diabólica. Mistakes you detect are all mine.


	8. Black at Heart

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise._

* * *

**VIII. **

White crowned, the little waves broke on the shore of Loch Voil, slapped on shingle and stone, on boulder and cliff. Spent, they hastily retreated into the Loch as if looking for shelter, or as if recoiling from the touch of the shore. Black was the water, black and deep and cold like his memories. The wind drove rain clouds over a bleak sky. The shoulders of heather-covered hills hunched in the frosty air. A flock of geese, croaking hoarsely, drew an incomplete triangle on the troubled sky.

Snape shuddered and shrank back into his warm woollen greatcoat. He needed to be alone, away from the other members of the Order, away from everyone. Words, words, words. Never silence. Questions. Never-ending questions. No answers. Not even from Dumbledore. None that could still his hunger. No hope either. No hope for peace of mind. No hope that he could ever stop being what he was. No hope that it would ever end. No hope for another way of life. No hope.

_Hope is for the weak at heart, _he sneered. _Things must be done. That is all. Nothing to be gained. Only another task fulfilled. No appreciation, no merit, no gratitude, not another chance given. Never. Only a fool thinks otherwise._ He hugged himself, drawing his chin against his chest, thus braving another gust of icy wind. _There is no hope of redemption or final justice. There is no such thing as fate or a divine master plan. It is the choices we make… And what a mess I have made of my existence… _He clenched his fists and angrily shook his head at himself. _Stop whingeing about your miserable reality and live with it, you wimp. It is as it is. End of discussion. _

The heels of his boots crunched in the gravel as he abruptly turned to walk the three miles to the forlorn cottage. The first watch was his.

*

The old cottage was as lonely and deserted as he remembered it from his first visit. No birds were hopping through the hedge or warbling from the boughs of trees. No squirrels were searching for nuts among the red and yellow leaves on the ground or playing hide and seek between the bushes. All life seemed to shun the proximity of the building and its inherent evil. Not even the sun dared to show its face, using a veil of grey clouds to hide.

Snape did not expect anything to happen today. Two days until the new moon would rise. Two days until the Cult was supposed to hold its black mass. Two days he still had to curb his impatience. Two endless days before he could finally get into action. Nevertheless, he systematically checked the surroundings for traces of an unwelcome presence. But there where no signs of a visit from others than himself. The Cronnekdhu still hung at the door, his spell still intact. All was as it should be. But the moment he turned around to look for a safe place to observe, he heard a very faint scratching sound from … inside.

*******************************************

When Hermione opened her eyes, she was still surrounded by pitch-black darkness. She was still bound. She was still gagged. She was still buried. She was still alive. Dying was clearly not as easy as it seemed. She groaned. However, this time she did not despair. Not again. Never again. A burning, roaring, all-consuming rage swept relentlessly through her body and made her scream against her gag in fury. _How dare they capture me. How dare they keep me prisoner. How … dare … they!_ _I must, I need, I _will _live. _She tensed all her muscles and strained against her bonds. _Just … need … to … get … these … ropes … off … just … to … get … them … off … get … them … off! _With a start, she realised that the bonds had fallen away from her wrists and ankles. _Oh? What …? How …? Ah, bugger the _how_. I'm free, that's all that counts._ Frantically she fumbled off the kerchief that held the gag in place and then spat it out. Gulping in what little air there was she sank back, exhausted. Her clothes clung to her sweat-drenched body. However, with every heaving breath she took of the stale air, she slowly began to feel better. _But_ _I'm still trapped in this … coffin. How do I get out of it?_ _How?_ Somehow, she had managed to get her hands and feet free; perhaps she could break free from her confinement in the coffin in the same way. She thought about what had happened when she tried to free herself from her bonds. What had been different from the numerous other times when it had _not_ worked? She frowned. It was not physical strength, obviously. Even though she had strained against her bonds with all her might, they had not broken. They had simply had fallen off. That was odd. How could that have happened? Again, she wondered what had been different from all her other trials. The difference might have been that … she had been angry, _very_ angry. _So. I just have to get angry._ She tried. It did not work. She tried again, thinking about all the unfair, bad, and sometimes cruel things that she had witnessed in her life. It did not work. _There must be something else. Perhaps it works like a Patronus, an … inverted Patronus, not on positive emotions, but on bad ones._ Hermione closed her eyes and tried to relax. She went back into her memories, deeper and deeper. However, none of her memories, not even those of her murdered parents, made her angry, only sad. She groaned in frustration. But wait. What of those … other, those _alien_ memories? She reached back into the recollections whose origins she did not know. Yes, this got her closer to what she needed. Again, she remembered the Muggle she had killed, the stupid, dirty, useless _scum_. Yes, Muggles infested the world with their arrogance and stupidity, they tried to wrest power from the Wizarding world, they even led _wars_ against us. Had they not burned witches and wizards alive? Hermione gnashed her teeth in a sudden blinding rage. _Ah, how I despise them, how I _hate _them. Want to kill, kill, kill them!_

Something above her slid away. Cold air suddenly washed over her face. Hermione's eyes snapped open. The lid of the coffin had been blasted away, and she stared at the whitewashed low ceiling above her. Hastily she scrambled out of the coffin and hoisted herself up on the dusty wooden floor. Some kind of a pocket door above the coffin had obviously been opened, as well. She rested for a while on the floor, panting and trying to regain some of her strength. Finally, she sat up and looked around. The room she found herself in was bare except for an enormous carved chest at the back wall and a broken chair next to it. Weak, grey light filtered through several deep-set dirty windows. Across from her, in the other wall, she could see a heavy-looking iron door. It was closed.

Slowly Hermione stood up and walked over to the strongbox. Perhaps there was something useful in it. The moment she bent down to examine the padlock securing the box, she froze. Someone was suddenly in the room behind her. She felt a gaze burn into her back. Without further thought, she grabbed the old chair, swirled around, and threw it in the direction of the door. It missed the black-clad stranger only by a hair's breadth.

"Most kind," she heard him say. "But I prefer to stand."

*

There she stood, hair more tousled than ever, dirt smeared across her forehead, clothes ripped in several places and clinging sweat-drenched to her body. Huge eyes watched him warily. Her lower lip trembled slightly, of which she obviously became aware, because she frowned and then bit on it.

"It's … you," she stated flatly, eyes narrowed.

"Acutely observed." Snape's eyebrows twitched.

"How did you get here? I mean, how did you get _in_"–she made an encompassing gesture–"this … room?"

"I Apparated."

"You _Apparated_?"

"This room seems rather small for an echo."

"Of course. I–I just … how did you know I was inside? Why are you here? And where is _here,_ anyway?"

Snape took a step towards Hermione but saw her flinch and take a hasty step backwards, which brought her with her back to the rear wall. She pressed herself against it, desperately trying to pass through somehow, her eyes wide and fearful like those of a cornered animal.

"Stop where you are! Don't come near me," she exclaimed alarmed. "Who sent you? How did you know I was here? Are you … are you …?"

"No!" he interrupted, arresting her fearful stare with his eyes; yet, he stopped in the middle of the room. "No," he repeated more quietly, "I am _not_ one of your captors."

The young witch suddenly swayed with fatigue, and he saw the blood leave Hermione's face; her knees buckled. In two long strides, he reached her, seizing her by her upper arms before she could hit the ground.

"Miss Granger, you will not faint, do you hear me? You will not faint!"

She nodded weakly and tried to straighten up, but failed and without his supporting hands, she would have fallen. Gently he guided her down onto the nearby strongbox, still supporting her with his hands.

"You are cold. Here, take this."

*

Yes, she was cold, so very cold. A moment later, she felt herself wrapped in a warm woollen coat, but she kept shaking uncontrollably nonetheless. She felt ill. Everything around her lost contours somehow and began to swim before her eyes; the room seemed to be closing in, all sounds muffled as if the walls were padded with cotton wool. Through his supporting hands, Hermione felt Snape hesitate at what to do. Questioningly she looked up at him, but saw only a pale blur, which had to be his face.

"May I?" she heard him grumble in his ruined voice. "This alone will not do to get you warm."

Instead of answering, she unsteadily made room for him on the box. Snape carefully sat down next to her and drew her into the circle of his arms; her head came to rest on his shoulder.

It felt like coming home.

*

The emerald eyes of the tall, sandy-haired man who watched them from outside through one of the dirty windows were stony and cold and merciless, like those of a raptor fixing its gaze at some unfortunate prey. There he sat, the traitor Snape, in his arms the little Mudblood who was supposed to be sacrificed to the Great Mother at the dark of the moon. Snape had a slightly bewildered expression on his pale face. Granger, though, seemed rather content and relaxed.

_Ugh, how disgusting!_ _How can she stand to touch him, or rather tolerate to be touched by him? I never would have believed it of the apparently so virtuous Mudblood. _

The silent observer wrinkled his nose and grunted. Bad luck that Snape had found her. But how? What had indicated this place? Had they not done the utmost to veil Granger's whereabouts? They had cast a spell, which made it impossible to trace her or to detect her through a Homenum Revelio. A _Muffliato_ should have subdued all sounds. However, he had apparently found the hidden room beneath the floorboards and set her free. It was out of the question that she had freed herself. How to explain Snape's presence here then, if he was not the 'knight in shining armour'? He shrugged. It could not be helped. Granger was free, no matter how. The problem was that they now had to find some other Mudblood to be sacrificed come new moon – and another place for the Black Mass. He growled with suppressed wrath. Or … should he dare to attack them? Snape was not on his guard, it seemed, too preoccupied with the young woman he held in his arms, and the Mudblood had no wand. However, he knew that his powers were not yet at their fullest. He first needed to carry out the rarely performed but extremely significant blood ritual as his final Initiation at the dark of the moon to come into all his powers. Then, well, _then_ he would be invincible. The stranger bared his teeth in a cruel mockery of a smile. _Then_ he could take revenge on all of them, especially on Snape who had dared to mock the Great Mother by trying to make Her his own. Yes, Snape would know a very slow and painful death … after he had watched his Mudblood Granger be ravaged by the acolytes of the Mother of Darkness like the little slag she obviously was. He felt himself twitch, as he imagined Granger writhe beneath the various men – and Snape would have to watch in impotent rage.

_Yes_, the stranger bit his lip in anticipation, _I will be the last one to penetrate her, and while spilling my seed into her womb I shall cut the little Mudblood's throat. _

He drew a deep shuddering breath and turned away.

Perhaps all was well as it was – who knew? Performing The Ritual of Absolute Power at a different place … perhaps … yes, at their most sacred meeting place, which was situated in the centre of the holy pentagram, made absolute sense. He threw a last glance over his shoulder at the pair sitting on the strongbox.

_You are marked cattle on your way to the slaughterhouse._

With new vigour in his bearing, he vanished.

*

Snape looked up with a start. Had there been something? A sound, more felt than heard? A movement, perceived only in the corner of his eye? No. Nothing had changed. All was as it was before. Little dust motes danced in the slanting light of a late afternoon that spilled through the blind windows of the cottage. But this must not ever happen again. He had _never_ before allowed himself to be so … _distracted_. This could prove to be a deadly mistake in his – _their_ present situation.

However, Granger's story had captivated him completely. First, he had briefly explained all that had led to his presence at this place. Granger had then told him, haltingly at first, then in a rush, about how she had been able to set herself free. Snape decided not to tell her his thoughts on her newfound ability. Inquisitive as she was, she would soon find out herself. What she had explained to him was a rare gift, and a very dangerous one at that. The _Igneus Irae,_* under which name this ability could be found in obscure scriptures from the ancient past, was sometimes even described as a disease rather than a special ability. In scientific witchcraft circles, it was discussed that it was probably some genetic defect or at least an aberration. However, nobody actually knew what it was exactly or how it worked or who was especially prone to it. How had Granger come to this? She had never shown the slightest tendency to suffer from this _gift_. Ancient scrolls also assumed that predominantly mentally deranged offsprings of noble houses showed this ability – degeneration through hundreds of years of inbreeding could not be excluded. So … how did Granger fit into this picture? Perhaps it had something to do with the Senex curse. Somehow, Granger had become a woman full of secrets and hidden surprises. Very interesting indeed… And also completely irrelevant and absolutely unimportant to him. Well, if he only knew who had cast that curse…? Anyway, the main problem was that the Igneus Irae could not be controlled or focused. It simply … happened. Unfortunately, very often with disastrous results to the unlucky ones who happened to be near when it unfolded its power or to the _casters _themselves, if one could actually call them that.

Snape looked down at the top of Hermione's head and tightened his hold on her for a fraction of a second, which made her look up. He almost drowned in her gold-flecked eyes, which unfortunately did not escape her. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat.

"Miss Granger, provided you are feeling better, we should leave for Hogwarts now."

She nodded against his chest and smiled up at him. He almost fled from her side. While he erased all traces of their presence, Hermione still sat huddled in his coat on the strong box and watched him move through the room with the grace of a dancer. Without his arms around her, she felt somehow … bereft. Some minutes later, after setting the wards again, they left for Hogwarts.

********************************************************

Situated on an extinct volcano, Stirling Castle dominates the plane 250 feet below; the town huddles in its sheltering shadow. Stirling once had been the key to the kingdom during the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Wars of Independence and was the favourite royal residence of many of the Stuart Monarchs. Various important and gruesome events–including the violent murder of the eighth earl of Douglas by James II in 1452–took place at Stirling Castle. It also played a very important role in the life of Mary Queen of Scots. She spent her childhood there, and her coronation took place in the Chapel Royal in 1543. That is, among other reasons, why the grandest of Scotland's castles is one of the most popular visitor attractions in the country. It was also a reason for The Cult, with its emphasis on the sacred female, to choose this site for its darkest rituals. Another was that Stirling was at the centre of the holy Pentagram, at the intersection of several veins of the earth, the Ley Lines.

*

A long, softly chanting _(O Great Mother, both Dark and Fair – mors certa –) _procession of dark, hooded figures (_Divine Lady – hora incerta –) _wound its way up via the steep lane lined by silent, old houses _(be in all our hearts)_ to the towering castle _(for Your time has come again!), _which was veiled in rags of blackness. Torches bled their uncertain, flickering light into the cold darkness of the new moon. Prying eyes or inquisitive ears could not detect the progress of the congregation, for it was shielded by dark magic.

They advanced across the Esplanade to the entrance with its round towers in the outer moat. Only the statue of Robert the Bruce, the victor of the Battle of Bannockburn, watched them file by. Reaching the lower square, which is overlooked by the Parliament Hall, they turned to the Palace. The allegorical figures in its façade seemed to stare disapprovingly down at them. The worshippers then headed in the direction of the upper square where the King's old buildings and the Chapel Royal, their destination, lay. This magnificent Renaissance building, remodelled by James VI in 1594, with its seventeenth century fresco of elaborate scrolls and patterns, held a secret of which none but the inner circle of The Cult knew.

Far below the marmoreal floor of the Chapel Royal, carved deep in the living rock there was another chapel, a sacred place out of primeval times, once dedicated to an unknown but universal Mother Godhead. The congregation reached it through a vault in the floor of the Chapel Royal over long, winding, rock-hewn stairs.

At the front wall of the chapel stood a black stone altar, above which hung the bleached skull of a ram with big, curled horns. The oaken hammerbeam roof dissolved in the shadows high above the heads of the worshippers; on the walls hung thick tapestries in dark reds and greens; white and silver sacred symbols wove dizzying patterns on them. On the bare walls in-between hung grisly pictures of tortured men and women; naked, broken, bleeding: sacrifices to the Mother of Shadows.

When the congregation entered in solemn procession, an alto voice intoned the ritual greeting:

"I am the First and the Last,

I am the Honoured and the Scorned,

I am the one they call Life,

And you have named me Death."

The worshipers chanted in answer:

"Mistress of Darkness, roaming all the heavens above,

You descend,

Your heart broken, Your splendour extinguished.

Thrown into the abyss of hell,

You will ascend again,

For Your time has come!"

They assembled in front of the altar on which lay a lithe female, bound on hands and feet, naked, her dark eyes molten pools of fear. The light of black candles mirrored in the silver chalice that stood beside her. As the congregation bowed low before the altar, a measured, entrancingly rhythmic melody suddenly arose, seemingly to sift through the marble floor; the air was pregnant with the fumes of Henbane, Thorn Apple, and Deadly Nightshade. The acolytes then begun to softly chant a mantra–'_mors certa, hora incerta' –_to the ever-accelerating rhythm of the music that had, almost imperceptibly, but steadily, gained in volume. With every new utterance of the holy invocation, the shadows in the recesses and vaults of the ceiling grew darker, more solid–wreathing forms of cumulated darkness. The Others were gathering.

With a sudden thunderclap, the music, and with it the congregation, fell silent; from a side-door the celebrant, followed by his two assistants, entered and strode to the altar. After they had also bowed low in front of the altar, the high priest turned around, holding a black host high over his head.

"Children of the Mother of Darkness, behold the body of the living Goddess, which shall provide you with life everlasting!"

"Blessed be Her name!" the congregation answered in a deep rumble and fell down on their knees.

The high priest turned back to the woman on the altar stone, bowed again, and set the host on her mons veneris. He then walked backwards down the thirteen steps from the altar to the floor of the chapel on which a naked, sandy-haired man lay face down, prostrate.

All was well.

The Ritual of Absolute Power could begin.

*

The music softly sat in again. The high priest, who stood beside the prostrate man on the ground, put his left foot on the man's neck.

"Why have you come into the presence of the Mother of Darkness?" he asked.

"To seek the Absolute Power of the Otherworld," the naked man responded.

"What do you offer in return?"

"My everlasting gratitude."

"Not enough!"

"A life in the service of the Great Mother."

"NOT enough!"

"The life-blood of this virgin on the altar now and streams of the blood of Her enemies later at our final victory over them."

Seemingly from nowhere, a strong wind blew out the candles and plunged the chapel into sudden darkness. In the breathless silence that followed, a clear voice could be heard:

"This will do, beloved son."

All of a sudden, the candles sprang back to life. The high priest stepped back and climbed the steps to the altar. When he had reached it, he raised his hands and intoned:

"In nomina Magna Dei Nostra Mater introibo ad altare Domina umbra. In the Name of our Great Mother, I will go to the altar of the Dark Lady."

"To Her Who gives joy unto me," the worshipers answered.

"Our help is the Name of the Dark Lady."

"Who reigns on earth."

"Thine is the earth, Mistress of Darkness. Thou hast founded the earth and the fullness thereof. Justice and luxury are the preparation of Thy Throne. Princes sat and spoke against me, and the wicked persecuted me. Help me, Divine Lady. Keep me, Mother of Shadows, from the hands of the wicked," the priest continued.

"And from unjust men deliver me," the congregation chanted in unison.

"Mother of Shadows, Thou shalt turn again and quicken us."

"And Thy people shall rejoice in Thee."

"Lady of Darkness, show us Thy power."

"And grant us of Thy bounty."

"Divine Lady, hear me."

"And let my cry come unto Thee."

The high priest turned to the congregation, and held up his left hand in blessing.

"The Mother of Darkness be with you."

"And with you also," came the answering rumble of the worshippers.

"Glory to the Goddess, the Dark Lady, and on earth life and strength to man. We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we adore Thee, we glorify Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy great power, Lady Divine, Dark Queen, Almighty Empress."

After almost a millennium, the doors to the Otherworld had opened again.

* * *

**A/N: **My gratitude belongs to my ever-reliable and always inspiring beta, Celta Diabólica.

*_Igneus Irae _means _burning wrath._

The Chapel Royal actually has a wooden floor_.  
_


	9. Hiatus

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise._

**IX****. **

Hermione looked at her still mostly unfamiliar face in the clouded mirror in her bathroom after her fifth long hot shower in two days, with which she had tried to rinse off the feeling of abuse. She curled her lip at her image in the mirror. At least her eye-colour had not changed, she thought wryly. Professor Snape–it was still not possible for her to think of him in any other way–and she had not reached Hogwarts until midnight after she had freed herself from her confinement in the cottage, because Hermione had not felt up to facing all the questions from the other members of the Order earlier. Therefore, they had stopped at a little café in a small Scottish town. They stayed there for some hours, talking, thinking, drinking tea and, inbetween, lingering in an unexpectedly companionable silence. She had worn his coat all the while. She still missed it, the comfort and warmth of it. Sheltered. Yes. She had felt sheltered. And protected. And not only by the coat. She drew a deep breath and turned away to walk over into her small living room. In addition to this room, she called a small bedroom at the top of Gryffindor Tower her own, all provided by the current headmistress, Professor McGonagall. All of them who had become homeless through the war had found shelter at Hogwarts. And not only those, but also almost all of the members of the Order. At first, it had only been a matter of convenience to have them all around, but later it became more and more a question of security. Hermione looked affectionately around her living room. It had fast become home to her. The room was almost circular with a wide floor-to-ceiling window in the western part of it. It provided a spectacular view over the Hogwarts grounds and because of that, she had placed her writing desk in front of it. The dark wooden floorboards of the room were randomly covered with soft, merrily coloured carpets. In front of the fireplace in the southern wall, she had arranged two wing chairs and a soft couch. There she now snuggled up, watching a flickering fire in the hearth. She absentmindedly rubbed at the skin just under her collarbone. It still hurt. The bastards of the Cult had marked her with an inverted pentagram, and it looked like they had applied the same technique as Voldemort had used for his markings. The room suddenly spun around her. Every time she thought back to her confinement, she felt nauseated. She had been lucky to get away and finally she knew _how _she had managed it. Professor Snape had provided her with a very rare tome from his private library. He had handed it to her after she had asked him for some information about the unusual things that had happened to her – like the Senex curse and the way she had set herself free. His face had been the usual unreadable mask, but behind his eyes had flickered something she could not quite identify. She shook her head, still wondering what it might have been. This made her think back to their stay at the café on their way home. There, in addition to her research into her experiences later on, another riddle had been solved. When they had sat in the little café and she had felt absolutely miserable and cold and shaken to the bone, he had suddenly held out his closed hand over the tabletop towards her. When she had looked at him with questioningly raised eyebrows, he had opened his hand and there, in his palm, rested the little blue stone she had used to get him to St Mungo's.

"I think," he had said casually, not looking at her, "this is yours. I have re-dedicated it. Use it in dire need. It will get you to m…" – there he had cleared his throat – "a safe place at once."

She had recognised the words with a little jolt – '_Use it in dire need.' _– hadn't these been the exact words with which the blue stone had come to her the first time? She had looked up at him with a sudden smile.

"I knew it! It was _your_ handwriting on the note, even though you obscured it! But … why?" she had asked, searching his face.

For the first time in the more than seven years she had known Professor Snape, he had averted his gaze when asked a question. Instead, he had intensely contemplated the scarred wooden tabletop. Just when she thought he would not answer, he had replied,

"We needed Potter to survive. This was my contribution to the task at that time."

"But why,"she had insisted, "did you give it to _me_?"

"You were the logical choice. You would have never abandoned Potter, no matter what. In addition, you obviously would have been the one who would keep cool if Potter should encounter a situation where he would no longer be able to fend for himself."

Somehow, Hermione had the distinct feeling that had been only part of the answer, but she did not want to delve deeper into something he obviously was not comfortable with. So they had simply sat in silence for a while. Snape had nursed his cup of black tea, apparently miles away in his thoughts. She had discreetly watched his face, which seemed to her no longer unreadable but serene and slightly melancholy, like the failing light of a wintry sky. Then he had softly added something to no one in particular, it seemed.

"I certainly never meant it to be used on me."

"But I'm glad I did," she had exclaimed, touching his hand in a sudden rush of affection. He had not drawn back, nor had he flinched or twitched. He had simply turned into a block of ice, looking stricken. Embarrassed, she had started to pull back her hand, when he had unexpectedly detained it with his.

"I am …" He had hesitated, considering his next words for a second. Then he had lifted his dark gaze from her hand to her eyes and continued, "Thank you for saving my life, for what it is worth. It will always be beyond me, Miss Granger, why you did it, but I will also never forget that you did it and for what price." With this, he had reached out and gently traced the faint scar that the Senex curse had cut into her face with his index finger.

Time stopped.

"Well, Miss Granger," he had suddenly enquired, pulling his hand back, as if he had only just become aware of what he had been doing, "do you think you are up to the inquisitiveness of our fellow campaigners at Hogwarts now?"

Time set in again.

Without waiting for an answer, he had stood up briskly, thus crushing the unanticipated tenderness of the preceding moment. She had only been able to nod mutely, too deeply touched by what had just had happened.

When they had finally reached Hogwarts, he had left her at the entrance with a curt nod, disappearing in the direction of the dungeons. Since then she had seen him only once: when he had given her the book about rare curses.

~*~

At the same time, in a room far below Gryffindor Tower in the dungeons of Hogwarts, the man Hermione was thinking of sat in silence in the dark, wondering about the twists and turns of fate.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Michal Letalis unobtrusively slipped through the door of the Chapel Royal at Stirling Castle. He wrapped himself tighter in his Invisibility Cloak, one of only a few left in the Magical World. He smiled at himself contentedly, because he had managed to discover the holiest of the holy places of the Cult. The members of the Cult had left shortly before him. Only the priest, a man called Cerastes, and his assistant Aranea had stayed behind, probably to Vanish the bloody mess from the ritual killing of the young Muggle woman. Too bad he had not been able to save her. Well, this could not be helped now and after all, she had been only a Muggle, he thought dismissively. Michal had trailed this Cerastes for almost a month now, never able to actually corner him or at least find something substantial about the Cult until today. He should contact Jordan River at once, he knew, but he felt suddenly drained after all the excitement of the last hours. _Damn, _he thought, _not this splitting headache again._ He could not remember being especially prone to headaches in the past, but now they had been going on and off for quite some time. But that was not all. He also suffered from unexplainable blanks in his memory lately. In fact, he was not at all sure of how he had gotten to the Chapel Royal at Stirling Castle or about what had happened there exactly. He suddenly felt nauseated, his feeling of contentment blown away. _I have to get back._ Where to, he did not know. However, the urge to spin and Apparate was overwhelming. _I am going to splinch myself_ was his last coherent thought.

~*~

Harry woke up with a start. The blankets were tangled around his body. He freed himself from the linen and stared into the darkness of the room, shivering in the sudden gust of cold air from an open window on his sweat-drenched body. A dream, a dim memory, tugged at his mind, elusive, like something hiding just out of the corner of your eye, dissolving like pale mist blown away by a breeze the moment you turned and tried to look straight at it. Something had happened. But what, he did not know. He only sensed the fading echo of a feeling of primal fear, of a nameless horror from a twisted, broken nightmare reverberating through his whole body. He sat up, pulled the blankets up again, and wrapped himself in them against the cool night air. The moment he had woken up, the now almost-familiar headache had set in, a drilling, relentless, red-hot pain behind his eyes. _Not again_, he thought, _please, not again!_ He groaned and buried his face in his hands. What was happening to him? There were these weird blanks in his memory, the sudden headaches, and latterly Ginny's odd behaviour towards him, as if he were dynamite, carefully handled and best avoided. Why, why, _why_? He had caught her several times during the last few days watching him with an anxious question in her eyes that he was not able to fathom. And Snape, Snape was watching him too. _Why_? What was _wrong_? Harry reached out to the flask on his bedside table and gulped down its contents. The headache melted away, and he thankfully relaxed against the headboard of his bed. Even though he felt drained and groggy, he could not sleep again, and so he just rested, watching the darkness in his room slowly fade into the pale light of a new day. The growing light gradually gave contours to the furniture in his room, coloured the blacks and greys of the dying night in the light blues and red-gold of a newborn day and gently revealed all the things that had been hidden in shadows during the night. With a sharp intake of breath, Harry perceived his Invisibility Cloak, which he thought had been resting securely in his trunk, lying crumpled at the foot of his bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jordan River was on his way to the meeting place Michal had suggested. He still wondered why Michal did not want to meet him at the office in London. Actually, it did not matter where they met. The only thing that mattered was that Michal had hinted at having discovered something very important about the Cult; he had even spoken about a major breakthrough in their investigation. He had said it was so urgent that Jordan had not even had time to inform anyone else of this newest development. After their unsuccessful attempt at catching the members of the Cult at the cottage during the new moon, this news was sorely needed to renew their hope of finding them at last, Jordan thought mirthlessly. So he eagerly hurried on through the night-deserted streets of the little village near Stirling.

A gush of warm yellow light suddenly flooded the dark street in front of him when the door of the local pub swung open and three figures staggered out, bawling very off-key some ribald song about a farmer and his favourite duck. Jordan melted back into the deep shadow of a garden wall and waited for the men to leave. Unfortunately, one of them turned in the direction where Jordan was hiding. The other two disappeared the opposite way. Jordan hastily cast a Disillusionment charm, but the man from the pub came unerringly towards him, just as if he could somehow see him. The door of the pub had closed again, so there was only the far-off light of a street lamp to relieve the darkness of the night. Jordan's skin began to crawl with anticipation and he clutched his wand tighter, ready for defence or attack. There was definitely something wrong with this tall stranger, clad in a long dark coat whose cowl he had drawn over his head. About five steps from Jordan's hiding place, the strange man stopped and turned towards Jordan, who tried to keep cool. _He cannot see you. He can't!_ he thought, while attempting to dissolve further into the shadows of the wall. Eyes gleamed from under the cowl as the stranger looked up and down the street as if to make sure they were alone. Jordan readied himself for an attack when the stranger stopped his inspection to apparently stare straight at him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jordan," he heard a familiar voice, "why are you hiding from me?"

"Michal! … Well, well, strange company you keep lately," Jordan exclaimed with a casual nod in the direction in which the other men from the pub had vanished. "I was just getting ready to attack. One can't be too cautious these days." Such a wave of relief spread through Jordan's body that it completely escaped him to wonder how exactly Michal could have spotted him _before_ he had removed the Disillusionment charm.

"It's me, mate, so there's no need for your wand, right?" Michal pulled back his hood, cocked his head, and grinned widely at Jordan.

With a rueful answering smile, Jordan put his wand back up his sleeve. "I'm glad you're still alive, Michal. I was a bit worried. Not heard from you for such a long time. So what'd you find out about the Cult?"

"I'm not sure this should be discussed in the middle of the road and in the middle of the night. C'mon, there's a safe house near here where we can talk in private."

A few minutes later, they entered a small cottage at the end of a narrow lane on the outskirts of the village. The small living room was bathed in the warm glow of a welcoming fire. They sat down in two armchairs in front of the hearth, with tumblers of Firewhisky Michal had provided, catching up on their news. They were so deeply absorbed in their discourse that they did not notice the soft clicking sound of the latch of the back door or the two shadows slipping silently inside.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After a long, cold and dreary winter and a short, wet spring, early summer had finally arrived. The verges on the side of the footpath leading to a spatter of birches and ash on a little knoll near the lake were thick with the white of gypsy lace and round-faced daisies, lush with the sappy greenness of fresh grass. In the tall hedges honeysuckle twisted around the bursting growth of hawthorn and holly, filling the air with its seductive scent. Blackberries choked even the smallest gap between the bushes. At their roots sprouted pools of purple-blue self-heal and the lanky growth of lady's smock with its delicate flowers of violet-veined white. Pansies and buttercups sprinkled cheerful colours inbetween. Poppies blushed in the lush meadows behind the hedges, above which a pair of buzzards soared in a lazy spiral in an endless blue sky before turning on their wings and wheeling away. The humming sounds of bumblebees and the whirr of small insects hovered on the warm, still air; rabbits hopped across the pathway, carefree, drunk on clover. Snape stopped in the middle of the path, turned his face with closed eyes towards the afternoon-sun and let the warmth seep through his skin. He could smell a bunch of woodruff somewhere near, all the formulas of the potions it could be used in forming in his mind in an instant. His lip twitched with a half-smile in a moment of rare joy. He lingered for some minutes longer, his face still turned towards the sun, silent and unmoving, before he walked on.

Staff members and, least of all, students would certainly never believe him, if Snape should ever confess to enjoying long walks in the Hogwarts grounds. Come to think of it, this was an absurdity in itself, for he would never, under any circumstances, tell such a trivial matter to anyone. At least, he had not done so in the last twenty or so years. Yet it was true: he took pleasure in being outside, from walking through the castle grounds, or from wandering on his own through the Forbidden Forest – as far as he could find pleasure in anything, he wryly added in his thoughts. Though today he had another reason besides pure pleasure to go outside: today he simply needed to stretch his legs to get the tension out of his body. After their failure to track down the Cult at the cottage, the Order remained in a kind of unsatisfactory limbo, making no headway in any direction and having no plans whatsoever as to how to proceed. It was totally frustrating. Furthermore, they had also had no news from Jordan, their liaison to the Aurors, for more than four weeks now.

But Snape felt restless for another reason too. He was still in a daze about his unforeseen survival, not dead but not truly alive either. Had the Lazarus from one of the Muggle stories he had read felt the same, he wondered? Thrown back into a life he had probably no more wanted than Snape wanted his, a life which felt totally unfamiliar, as if a hundred years had elapsed in an instant and suddenly nothing was the same anymore. What was left to live for? There was no purpose in him being alive. Lily had been the centre of his life, always. She had been the only person he had ever been able to connect to. _But she_ _is dead, dead and gone_, he reminded himself brutally. He had nothing more to give. Ashes to ashes …

Snape took a deep breath, lengthening his strides along the winding lane.

His childhood had been lonely, like the loneliness of the dying daylight and the cooling of the air at nightfall. There had been no friends, only classmates who remained strangers to him during his early school days. He always had felt separated, different, in a queer, twisted way, a freak of nature. Then he had found out he could do things, things the other children could obviously not do, and he had felt slightly comforted and reconciled with his strangeness. During that time, he had also learned about Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. His mother had only spoken in whispers about those wonders to him, because his father had not liked them to be 'aberrations', as he had used to put it. However, there had been many times as well when his father had seemed curiously thankful that Severus and his mother were different: thus he had the ultimate excuse to pour out over them all the bitterness of the rotten failure he had managed to make out of his life. Yet on other days Snape's father had fervently prayed to whatever heavenly power might deign to listen to him that his only son would _please_ be spared of this 'abhorrent disease'. At these times–especially when drunk, which Snape senior was most of the time–he would brutally beat up his son when he caught him at doing something 'weird' or, alternately, his wife, when she again had failed, in his eyes, to educate their son properly and not forbidden him forcibly enough from using his 'dirty tricks'. Existence was pure misery in the Snape household.

But then Severus' life had unexpectedly taken a turn for the better when he had found her – his wonderful, beautiful Lily. At long last, there had been someone he could talk to, with whom he felt comfortable, and who would not taunt him as a freak or make fun of him, like the other children did, because of the shabby clothes he had to wear, or his odd behaviour, or his dark looks. Quite the contrary, she had always listened avidly to him when he had told her about Hogwarts and life in the Wizarding World. Yet the best part was that she too would be one of the chosen few who would have the privilege to go to Hogwarts. It was simply fantastic, and he had been so proud of being her friend. Thus he had given her his trust and with it, his heart, unrestrained and without calculation, as only the young can do. He had been unconditionally hers the moment he had drowned in her wide green eyes for the first time.

Severus had entered Hogwarts with high hopes. At last, there would be people like him; at last, he would be able to make friends, to connect, to _belong_. But things had not turned out that way, for he had never learned how to make himself liked. He did not know what to say or do. Therefore, even among his own kind, he remained the outsider, the serious, lanky, unkempt boy, insecure and painfully shy. The other students however thought him arrogant, because he did not speak to them and always remained haughtily behind during social events, or because he smugly flaunted his remarkable knowledge right in front of them during lessons, preening his feathers with shameless pride at the praise of his teachers. At least, that was how they had interpreted his behaviour. Not one of them saw behind the ruse to protect his fragile self-esteem, to guard the abundance of his feelings. Except Lily. She always stood up for him when he stumbled through one of his frequent blunders. She would listen to his dreams and hopes for a brilliant future for hours on end, or discuss the proper use of a spell under this or that circumstance, or help him prepare potions he had newly invented, or struggle together through some especially tricky part in one of their text books, or spend hours with him in the library. He could have watched her forever when she intently bent over an open book with her sleek, burnished hair tucked behind one ear, her finely-curved, dark eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration, wrinkling the delicate skin above her straight nose. He adored her. She was his life.

And then he had done the unthinkable: he had abandoned and betrayed her. First, with his cruel taunts in front of his Slytherin classmates, and then with his unwise, hasty words to Voldemort. Oh, he had been so eager to please, to finally fit in somewhere.

At first, his love for her had been his reason to live, then his guilt and his hunger for revenge. This was what had got him out of bed every morning, made him endure the constant strain of being in mortal danger. This had made him desperately cling to her memory, because without his love for her and his revenge he felt lost and empty. He had absolutely no idea of how to live without it.

Abruptly he stopped in his tracks, for in his lonely walk in the Hogwarts grounds, lost in his memories, he had suddenly become aware of a shift in his mind that seemed to have gradually taken place in the previous weeks: his love for Lily had somehow become a memory, a sad and melancholy memory, but at last nothing more than a memory; the pain of her loss remembered, but no longer acutely felt. Startled, he found he could suddenly breathe more freely, as if the heavy weight of his guilt and shame over his betrayal, and subsequently her death that had lain for so many years on his chest had been taken away at long last. He no longer felt utterly lost without her. He no longer needed revenge as a reason to live. He was absolved. He was free.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Are you going mental or what?" Ron railed at Ginny. "Why on earth would I spy on my best mate?"

"Will you _please_ stop yelling at me, Ron?" Ginny replied, rolling her eyes in exasperation, because Ron was his usual dense self. "You can be damn sure there _is_ a good reason for me to ask you!"

"What, _what_ bloody reason can there be to _slander_ the guy who destroyed Voldemort, huh?"

"He acts funny."

"Oh, yeah. _That_'sa very convincing reason," Ron spat derisively.

"Please, Ronald! Just let me explain."

Ron flopped on the sofa with a resigned look on his face and gestured for her to go on.

It did not take much of Ginny's recount of the episode at the cottage to make Ron sit up, his face clouded with worry. Ginny then told him about her observations during the meeting in Professor McGonagall's office, about Harry's unaccountable mood swings, his sudden headaches, and his need to withdraw in the last few weeks. Ron stood up and began to pace the length of the room, looking more worried still. Ginny watched him for some seconds before she added, "He's not himself. He's … I don't know." Ginny shook her head sadly. "And he … he disappears."

"What d' you mean?" Ron stopped in the middle of the room to look questioningly at his sister.

"Well, there were times I was looking for him, but couldn't find him anywhere. Remember the night we thought the black mass would take place at the cottage? I wanted to fetch him, but he wasn't in his room. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. I even searched in the grounds for him, but not a sign, not a hint where he might be or what he was up to. He had simply disappeared. On such a crucial night for our cause! You tell me if that's not odd!" Ginny concluded.

"And you say he disappeared again today?"

"Yes, but this time I managed to put a tracking spell on him. What d'you think? Should we follow him?" Ginny looked pleadingly at her brother. "Maybe he's in some kind of trouble."

Ron narrowed his eyes. "Bugger! Y'know, I don't like what you're telling me at all, Ginny," he finally grumbled, "but you're right, the whole thing looks fishy… I'll come with you, sure. Let's go."

~*~

The tracking spell led them to Stirling where they spotted Harry walking purposefully down the main street. They followed him, always observing a safe distance between him and them, to an obscure little restaurant in a byway off the main street. Harry disappeared inside. Ginny and Ron remained some steps away from the entrance, not sure whether to proceed.

"Er, any idea what we're going to do now?" Ron whispered.

"Ron, I'm quite sure he can't hear us inside. So there's no need to whisper, is there? And of course I know what we're going to do. You stay here and I go check whether there's a back door. If there isn't, we just wait here until he comes out again. And then we'll see what there is to do," Ginny said levelly.

Ron grumbled his consent and leaned against the wall to wait for Ginny's return. There appeared to be no back door to the restaurant; therefore, they waited together in front of it for Harry to come out again. They cast a Disillusionment charm so as not to draw attention to themselves. They waited. And waited. However, nothing happened. Harry did not come out again. Others did: a family of four, some gnarled old men, two ancient ladies, a dog on its own who managed to slip through the half open door, and several younger men. But not Harry.

"Ok. That's it then. We've waited for nearly two hours. I'm going in to have a look now," said Ron, grim-faced.

"Right. But I'll come with you," Ginny replied, tension apparent in her voice. This was not going well. Something must have happened inside for Harry to not come out again.

Still under the Disillusionment charm, they warily entered the gloomy dining room and looked around. The room was empty.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With a slight feeling of apprehension, Hermione watched him walking briskly in the direction of the cluster of trees on the little knoll she had chosen as her sanctuary. He was still quite a distance away, but it was definitely him, dark and determined: Professor Snape. She saw him suddenly stop, as if he had run into a solid wall. He stood there, rooted to the spot, not moving, frozen in time. After some moments, he shook his head once, turned round and slowly went in the other direction, back to Hogwarts. Hermione followed him with her gaze, not at all sure if she was relieved or rather disappointed he had not come all the way to the little hillock. She could still see him, the man who somehow–she still wondered how–had silently and quite unobtrusively managed to occupy almost all her thoughts lately.

For some weeks now, after Snape had finally emerged from the dungeons following an initial week of deliberate seclusion from the rest of them, she had found herself discreetly watching him during the now almost daily meetings of the Order. He had been very quiet, never saying anything if not prompted. But when he had said something, it was as well thought out and straight to the point as ever. He still directed his formidable scorn in full force at those slower on the uptake than him, which meant practically everyone; he still did not suffer fools gladly. But some of his previous acrimony was lacking, as if his heart was no longer in it. From time to time, he seemed miles away, a distant expression on his face, cloaked in silence. On other occasions, she had caught him considering her in turn with his dark eyes, an unreadable expression on his face. One day, after a particularly lengthy Order meeting, she had suddenly become aware of him standing behind her as she was gazing out of one of the windows over the Hogwarts grounds. She had not turned round. He had not said anything. He just stood there, only inches behind her, quietly looking out of the window as well. It had felt surprisingly comforting. From then on, they had gradually developed some kind of routine. They both had somehow managed to always stay behind after meetings until the other members had left the room. They would quietly talk about the past discussion then, or about other things they thought the other might be interested in, with Hermione sitting in the window recess and Professor Snape leaning with his back against the corner of the embrasure, facing her. Occasionally they even argued about things said during meetings. The first time they had gotten into an argument, Professor Snape had seemed rather scandalised by her heatedly talking back to him. But later Hermione had come to strongly suspect him of drawing her into these arguments just for the fun of it. He always looked so very smug when he had managed to set her off.

On one night, she remembered, they had once again talked about the eerie second set of memories she possessed since the Senex curse, how they worried and disturbed Hermione. With a resigned sigh, she had dryly mentioned that at least she could occasionally put them to good use, like when she had used them to trigger the Igneus Irae. At that, he had said he believed the memories and the power of the Igneus had been transferred to her from the Death Eater who had cast the Senex curse. Therefore, he would strongly advise her to try to control the Igneus somehow, before it was set into motion by those memories without volition. Its utter unpredictability was not to be taken lightly. Perceiving her stricken expression at his words, he had cocked one eyebrow at her and added that surely she had not thought he would leave her to the task alone? Because–he had gone on with a totally unexpected boyish grin–he would not much care to be around if she should lose her temper–which, with him and his charming ways in her vicinity, might not take very long to happen–and trigger the Burning Wrath. Therefore, it was pure self-preservation to help her find a way to control it.

Hermione still could make him out on his way back to the castle, dark and determined: Professor Snape. Severus.

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**A/N: **As always, my gratitude belongs to my infallible beta, Celta Diabólica, who urges me on when I need it (which is most of the time ;-)) and praises me only when I deserve it (and actually quite often, like the remarkable person she is, even when I do not …).

Mistakes you detect are all mine.

_Sorry for the delay of Chapter 10. It's long overdue, I know... It will be posted as soon as possible. Please be patient :-)_


	10. A rock and a hard place Part One

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise._

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**X** **A rock and a hard place – Part One**

"Actually, Michal, I think we should go back to Stirling and check the Chapel Royal. Perhaps, now that the Cult has left, we might find some clues as to who's behind all that … Michal?" Jordan asked, his brows knitted in confusion, because his friend was staring wide-eyed and completely motionless over his head. "Michal?" he urged again. But instead of his friend, he heard someone else reply to him.

"Well, your friend, sir, obviously knows something which has escaped you until now. You've got company."

Jordan jumped up and turned round, drawing his wand in one fluid motion.

"Stop where you are, whoever you are!" he cried, brandishing his wand.

Behind him stood two figures, clad in black robes, their faces covered in silver masks. The bigger of the two lazily waved a hand at Jordan and replied, "Oh, don't you trouble yourself. There's no need to break a sweat over this. Just relax. You see, you don't have the slightest chance in any case."

Jordan bared his teeth in a contemptuous grin and shrugged. "That's what you think. Don't blame you for it. It's a free country. Well, anyway, while we happened to be socializing here, you might as well tell us what you want, and then we'll decide if you need to be arrested or not."

"Ah, well. Did you know they engaged comedians with the Aurors lately?" the smaller of the two put in, turning to her companion.

"Nope," they big man replied brusquely. Then he hissed in Jordan's direction, "You know, mister, this is no game. We're not in a playground. You see, some people–really powerful people–think you went too far with your nosing into other people's business, you little shit. You trod on too many toes. And they were not amused – trust me, not at all. Hence, it's time for you to withdraw … or to be withdrawn for good."

"You surely do not believe you can take on two trained Aurors, do you?" Jordan said levelly, shaking his head. "Can you believe such blatant stupidity, Michal?"

But there was no answer from his friend.

"Can you, Michal?" he asked again.

"Well, actually, Jordan, I don't think they are stupid, and I do believe they can take you on."

Jordan was quite certain he must have gotten wrong what Michal had just said. He surely had _not_ said they could take him on_, _had he? He threw a quick, anxious glance over his shoulder, not daring to let the two strangers out of his sight for more than a tenth of a second. But what he had seen with this quick look made him very slowly turn round to his friend. Michal's wand pointed right at Jordan's chest.

"Well, doesn't seem to be your lucky day, does it?" Michal said softly.

Jordan had not even had enough time to think '_no'_ before the green jet of light thrust him into eternal darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Othello McDougal struggled with his wand, which somehow would not come clear from his robes. His hand was held down by something he could not quite make out. He tried again, but he found that he could hardly move at all: not run, not fling himself on the ground, nor do anything to protect himself from the unnamed terror that was hunting him it seemed for an eternity now. He moaned in helpless fear and desperation. The _thing, _whatever it was, drew relentlessly nearer and nearer, intent on killing him. It crashed through the dense brushwood, looming suddenly over him, dark and menacing, stinking of putrefying flesh. In a last unsuccessful attempt to hide, Othello pressed himself down to the ground, shaking with terror. "_Please, oh please have mercy," _he whimpered and tried to crawl away. "I think not," Othello heard it growl as it reached out to him, clamped an icy, clawed hand around his neck, and pressed down on his windpipe. With a gurgling sound and a rapidly beating heart, Othello McDougal emerged from a troubled sleep.

_Oh, my_, he thought, _this will not do_. _There's entirely too much on my mind, lately. But I do need all the sleep I can get, or else I might make one mistake too many_. Othello took a deep, shuddering breath. Moreover, in the present situation, this mistake might turn out to be fatal. No one knew who was going to be next…

With all the horrifying things going on in this country, it was no wonder the ancient and pitifully fragile ex-Auror could not sleep untroubled. People from all occupations and backgrounds disappeared with no apparent reason and mostly without a trace. Some turned up again, dead. Very dead. Some were horribly mutilated; others were simply dead – at least at a (very) superficial glance. Those turned out to be … sucked virtually empty, leaving only a flabby sack of skin filled with broken bones, but no organs and no blood. They had a look of absolute terror deeply etched into their features, eyes wide open, glazed over in death. Othello did not even want to imagine what horror they might have seen before their end. He took another deep breath. Why in Merlin's name had the Ministry come to him? Could they not have left him alone? What did they expect him to contribute? Wasn't it rather ridiculous to theorise about the doors of the Otherworld of having been opened again? Such a thing could not be true. It must not be true. Surely, there had to be a much more plausible explanation for the grisly incidents of the past months. However, he was the only still-living expert on the Dark Secrets. So. So, they had asked him to find out how to drive back the Others and how to close the doors again. Bah, as if they had been opened again in the first place!

"What utter nonsense!" Othello grumbled under his breath.

However, he had found out what had to be done in the unlikely case the theory turned out to be true. Just tonight, he had come across a fragment of a two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old myth about _Gorm the Great_, and there the answer had lain hidden. He chuckled. Even the answer was crap. The weapon, or rather the _talent,_ they needed could not be controlled – except by Gorm the Great perhaps, who was dead these two thousand and something years. Othello chuckled again. Caught between a rock and a hard place, it seemed. Anyway, this did not matter at all. Because the doors to the Otherworld had not been opened. And that was that. He reached out to his wife on the other side of their bed. In troubled times like these he could always find comfort in her presence. His hand touched cool linen. Her side of the bed was empty.

His bare feet made soft slapping sounds on the flagstones in the corridor that led to the kitchen. She had not been in the bathroom on the first floor. Therefore, Othello had gone down the wooden stairs to the ground floor. He did not bother to light a candle. It had been his home for over 80 years, had it not? He knew it like the palm of his hand. _Perhaps Calla got up to get something to drink_, he mused. Coldness crept up his bare, spindly legs, which stuck out pale and bent below the hem of his nightshirt. Calla would be angry with him for walking around in the middle of the night without the cardigan she had so lovingly folded over the back of the chair next to the bed. She always worried about his health since he had fallen ill with pneumonia caused by a walk in cold rain last autumn. He had not even thought about putting on his soft slippers, he realised. My, my, how she would _fuss_ over him! He could already see her fetching woollen scarves and hot tea and all. The ancient wizard smiled to himself. His mirth evaporated seconds later when he noticed that there was no light coming from the narrow chink underneath the closed kitchen door. He hesitated and frowned. There was something wrong here. He strained to hear something, anything, but his hearing was no longer what it used to be. There might, just might be a soft dripping sound. He was not sure. But what could that be? Not that blasted tap again, surely? Suddenly he very much wished he had brought his wand with him.

The coldness in the corridor grew stronger. His ragged breathing turned ghostly visible as he crept, inch by inch, towards the closed door. There was definitely a dripping sound, slow, sluggish, like the dripping of molasses. Othello reached the door and hesitated, panting as if he had run uphill, fat beads of perspiration building on his forehead, the palms of his hands slippery with sweat despite the frosty air. He felt a nameless fear lurk behind the door. But there was no choice. He had to know where his wife was. She could be in dire need of his help who knew? Screwing up all his courage, Othello gingerly turned the doorknob with shaking hands and pushed the door slowly, ever so slowly open. Nothing happened. Nobody attacked him. The door opened gradually with that familiar protesting screech it had given off since nineteen forty-seven. He had meant to mend it, yes, he really had. But there had never seemed to be time enough to do it with all his work at the office and then, since his retirement, with his time-consuming private research into the Dark Secrets of the Otherworld. Twenty years ago, Calla had finally given up admonishing him about it. The door swung fully open. Nobody was inside. Only the moon filled the kitchen with its harsh, cold light. On the table stood an earthenware pitcher and a mug. _So she went down to get something to drink_, Othello thought fleetingly while he took in his surroundings. But where was she then? He could not see the floor because it was covered in a soft greyish mist that wafted in the draught from the cracks in the old wooden window frames. Everything in the room was coated over with frost. On the wall opposite the door there seemed to be a smear on the white-washed wall. Othello crossed the room to have a closer look.

_You and you alone brought that on her! Just turn and__ – LOOK!_

With a sob, he recoiled from the cruel words on the wall. _Oh, no, no, no, please, no!_ Then he slowly turned around, feeling every minute of his one hundred and fifty-two years weighing on his heart, to look in horror at the bloody mess that was nailed head down to the wall next to the kitchen door, the bloody mess that had once been his wife. There were only shreds of skin left on her mangled, broken body. Her throat had been ripped out; blood dripped down, slow and sluggish in the freezing coldness of the room. The lobes of her lungs were spread out like the wings of a bird, a garish mockery of an angel, an angel of death. Othello sank down to his knobbly knees, hugging himself tightly and began slowly swaying his upper body back and forth in pure agony. _Calla, Calla, oh my poor, poor Calla! Why, oh why? What have I done?_

_~*~_

Othello rushed through the dense brushwood, his breath torn from his lips by the cold wind, his heart beating erratically in his heaving chest. Whatever hunted him drew relentlessly nearer. Down on his knees in the middle of the slaughterhouse that was once his kitchen, he had suddenly become aware of something, someone watching him. He had bolted through the back door in mortal fear. The door, caught in a sudden gust of icy wind, had shut behind him with a loud bang and he had done the only sensible thing: he kept on running. Without turning back once. He ran as fast as he could, which was not more than a painful, lurching hobble at best. Cold clawed with icy fingers at his back. But he struggled on. Crashing through the brushwood, he could feel their presence closing around him; shadows flitted right and left through the woods, only now and then visible; cruel voices jeered at him and whooped in the excitement of the hunt. Hard, bony fingers jabbed at him, strong hands shoved him around. He tripped over roots and outstretched legs, came up again and limped on, crumpled down again, came up again, trapped in an interminable, brutal, hopeless loop of agony until he could go on no more; until there was only the strength left to let him crawl in the dirt; crawl until he had to capitulate completely, sobbing with terror and fatigue, in the middle of a small moonlit clearing. They silently gathered around him then in a wide circle, black-clad, hooded figures, their hard, merciless silver masks gleaming in the moonlight. The old wizard rolled himself tightly into a ball, whimpering. _Please, oh, please, let this be another bad dream, nothing but a dream, a dream … _

Complete silence fell over the clearing when a tall man appeared from among the brushwood and cleared his way through the circle of figures; those nearest shuffled nervously out of his way as he strode towards Othello. Dark forms wreathed around him, clung to his shoulders like a robe, his face hidden in the shadows of a cowl. He stopped within a stride's length of the huddled form on the ground and slowly pulled back his cowl, revealing a narrow face and lank, sandy hair.

Staring up at the man's cold face, Othello whispered, "I-I know you. Y-You're the one from the Ministry. You're… M–" Othello paused and bit his lip. Admitting that he knew names might not be a very clever idea under these circumstances. "But why …?" He went on, his voice brittle with fatigue and fear.

"Well, actually I'm _not_ the one you think you know." The dark man bared his teeth in a cruel grin. "As you will find out soon enough. As for the 'why' – you're no longer useful to me. Through your research I know now that nothing and no one can ever stop me. The one, what's his name–_Gorm the Great_, wasn't it, who probably could stop me, has been dead these past two thousand years–as you well know."

"But …" Othello's eyes grew wide. "It means you … you have opened the … no, this cannot be … you broke the First Law!"

"Well, what if I have? You know that all who use magic draw on the Otherworld – more or less. So this is just a matter of scale, nothing more."

"But we also know that no one was ever able to control the full force of it," whispered the old wizard.

The tall man lifted his eyebrows. "Well, _my_ gifts are such that I _am_ able to control and use them to better this world for all of us! I fill the void Voldemort left behind with his slaughter. I will redeem those who died in battle, call them back from the dead!"

"Nobody can do that … Who–Who are you?"

"_I_ am the Chosen One!" The dark man spread out his arms and lifted his face towards the moon. "_I_ am the son of the Great Mother; _I_ am the bringer of life! You want to know? Then look!" His face and body worked, changed form, and revealed an even more familiar face and form to Othello.

"You!" Othello groaned. "Oh no, no … What have you done to yourself? What have you become? A shape-shifter, a stealer of faces, a murderer!"

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to call it murder. Tsk, tsk, tsk. What an ugly word." The green eyes in the now all too well known face gleamed with a red shimmer. "Necessary sacrifices' I would call it. And who cares about the means? Only results count," he went on coldly.

"What about me now?"

"Hm, let's see. You know now who I am. Highly unfortunate for you. So." He contemplated the cringing form of Othello with an unpleasant smile. "Consider yourself another necessary sacrifice. You serve the Cause."

"_Please, oh please have mercy," _Othello whimpered in a last desperate attempt to stay alive.

"I think not." He lazily pointed at Othello, uttering only one further word: "Feed."

The shadows that had clung to the dark man lunged with a piercing shriek at Othello as if released from a tightly drawn bowstring. The old man's body convulsed and writhed like a sack filled with fighting cats. The dark man watched with a blank expression on his young face until the shadows returned to him, leaving an empty shell that was once a living, breathing man, behind.

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**A/N****:** _I am sorry for the long delay in continuing this story. RL is limiting my free time a lot lately and will do so for the next couple of months. Another reason is that my beta, wonderful Celta Diabólica, can no longer beta for me. Therefore, I am forced to look for someone else to take over from her. Please be patient. The story will go on, eventually ;-)). _

_**Thanks for reading and reviewing**__!_


	11. A rock and a hard place Part Two

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognise._

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X** **A rock and a hard place – ****Part Two**

"You certainly do take a girl to the very best places," Hermione said with a weak effort at a smile.

"Oh, indeed. I have a knack for finding the most romantic settings, which no doubt explains my continuing popularity with the fairer sex," Snape replied. "Despite," he went on, ostensibly not noticing her wide-eyed disbelief, "being the greasy git of the dungeons."

"Yes. Well," Hermione stuttered, only then detecting the slight creases at the corner of his eyes and the almost invisible twitch of his mouth. "It's quite depressing how easily you can fool me, sir," she said, curling her lip. "But… what now?"

Hermione looked around. The dark room deep below the thick walls of Hogwarts smelled of decay and rot; the walls, as far as they could be seen in the uncertain light of a torch, glistened with wetness. If she got her bearings right, they should be far below Hogwarts' Great Hall in a very obscure part of the dungeons not known to many.

"I know, this is not a very inviting spot," Snape said, turning towards her, "but after you almost annihilated the entire Gryffindor tower while exercising your new-found abilities, it seemed… _prudent_ to relocate your training ground. Here, you can wreak as much havoc as you want _without_ jeopardising others." He absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder, which was still numb after a piece of loose wood had struck him when he had incautiously entered the empty classroom Hermione had chosen as her training area. She had been in the middle of one of her training sessions in which she, unfortunately still without success, tried to control the Burning Wrath. She noticed his unconscious gesture.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, contrite.

"Don't be. It was my fault. Miss Granger," he went on urgently, lifting her chin with his index finger, so she had to look up into his eyes, "it is absolutely necessary to control this… _gift_, as you well know. Else it might destroy you." Letting go of her, he produced a little flask from the breast pocket of his robes. "I think this might help focus your mind. It keeps you detached from your emotions. Therefore, you might be able to control them."

She took the little emerald flask with its clear potion from his hand and considered it for a short while with her head bowed. "Thank you–Sev… Professor. It might be useful in more ways than you can possibly imagine…"

* * *

_What__ has gotten into you? What, for Merlin's sake? Just look at you! _Severus contemptuously stared at his reflection in the mirror of his bathroom, the sharp razor dangling from his hand and flecks of shaving foam still under his ears and chin. No, he was not much to look at he decided, with his pale, wiry upper body heavily crisscrossed with old and new scars from numerous encounters of the unfriendly kind. The black hair that dusted his chest and trailed down his stomach did nothing to conceal those marks. It only made his skin look even paler in contrast.

_She is__ one of your pupils, and therefore entirely out of bounds!_ The crease between his eyebrows deepened as he shot a venomous glance at the man in the mirror, she was not exactly one of his students – it only so happened she once had been one of them. However, to him, this made no difference. _And_, he berated himself, _you are twenty, no, wait, since the senex curse ten years her senior_.

Considering her previous choice in men, she did not seem to be the kind of woman who fancied doters. He shot another contemptuous glance at his reflection. Furthermore – and this was the ultimate factor that tipped the scale – he was a murderer, at least in his own opinion, no matter what the official verdict had been. Yes, Dumbledore had begged for his death, and Severus had no idea what else he could have done at that time and under those circumstances. Still…

And even now, there was that melancholy emptiness that had left an echoing space where his heart must have once been, when he thought of Lily; there was this cold fear creeping through his veins that he might again destroy something – _someone_ – precious to him. How could he, if only for a second, consider to… no! Never. Yet, she was brilliant, clever, and compassionate; he could talk to her, he felt comfortable around her. With a start, he realised he yearned for someone who dared to climb the high walls of his self-inflicted isolation. But not her, not_ her! _This could never be. Even if _he_ might wish it, _hope_ for it; even if _she_ might, against all odds, turn to him, he could not reach out, tangled in his rotten past. Severus dropped the razor and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

A couple days later, Snape Apparated to a remote spot somewhere in South Wales. It was already late in the afternoon when he strode toward the home of Othello McDougal. The house was built of grey fieldstones to which pale yellow and green lichen clung. The shutters, their red paint peeling off in places, tiredly struggled to stay attached to their hinges; the dark, wooden door looked battered. In the far left corner of the garden, which had gone wild with weeds, an old well was situated. With an erratic squeaking sound, the bucket swung on its chain in the equally inconsistently blowing wind. However, even in its obvious state of decline, the little house looked cosy and inviting. Overflowing flowerpots decorated the crumbling windowsills and stood guard alongside the steps that led up to the door; cheerfully coloured drapes peeked through the spotlessly clean windows and the lion-headed brass knocker at the door gleamed in a warm red-golden hue in the evening sun.

He had no sense of foreboding when he knocked at the door.

* * *

Professor McGonagall had summoned Snape late last night and told him that there was a rumour about an Auror who was said to have found some answers to their most urgent questions, the most important of which was whether the doors of the Other World had been opened. And if so, what to do to turn back the dark forces and close the doors again. Othello McDougal was known, at least in certain circles, for his expertise in the forgotten realms of the Other Side. At the ministry they desperately awaited news from him, for there had been more and more inexplicable deaths all over Great Britain. There had to be an explanation, and with that, there had to be an answer, a solution for the severe crisis the Wizarding world was going through these months past.

However, Minerva was not happy with the progress the ministry had made so far. "Severus," she had said, "this all takes much too much time. It is now verified, if what I hear is true, that the Death Eaters joined the Cult and are regrouping in force. They are gaining more and more influence – and it cannot be ruled out they once again achieved to have their fingers in the pie in the ministry. Nobody dares to trust anyone anymore and I fear our time to stop those dark forces is rapidly running out – if they can be stopped at all, that is." She had shaken her head in silent desperation. "If we can't trust each other anymore the enemy has already won – we need to act!" She had turned towards the fireplace, staring absentmindedly into the flames.

"There's something else I have to tell you. Arthur just left. He had bad news. They've found the remains of Jordan River in Stirling. At least, they think it was he. He obviously died a couple weeks ago. Nobody at the Ministry has any idea why he went to Stirling, nor what he was looking for there. And Michal Letalis is still missing. They fear for the worst."

Considering these bad news they had decided they would no longer wait for the ministry to handle things. They had to act alone – again – and very soon or else their chance, if there _was_ a chance to vanquish the enemy, might be irrevocably lost.

* * *

Nobody answered to Snape's knocking. Perhaps McDougal and his wife had gone out. However, before Snape left to come back another time, he decided to first have a look at the back of the house for his mission was too urgent to give up so easily. It was possible they were home but simply had not heard him knocking. After all, they were elderly people. When Snape turned around the corner of the little building, he found the back door ajar, half-torn from its hinges, and wet, dark footsteps trailing down the three steps that obviously led up to the kitchen. The footsteps pointed to a densely wooded area close by. _Gods! What had happened here?_

He cautiously entered the kitchen through the back door, his wand at the ready. Nothing that had happened in his life so far could have prepared him for the macabre sight he found to his horror inside. Someone had gone crazy in here. Dark blood and other human matter had splattered gruesome patterns on the walls, the curtains were ripped off, chairs were thrown over or broken, shattered cutlery covered the floor, an earthenware mug crashed on the ground had spilled its watery content, now frozen in a million slightly-rose-tinged droplets.

When he lifted his wand to have a better view, the sight of the twisted, broken form, nailed head down to the wall, who once had been a living, breathing human being sprang at him from the blackness near the door. Snape staggered some uncertain steps back until he felt the wall reassuringly at his back. The bloody apparition seemed to focus its broken stare accusingly on Snape. He had to leave. At once.

As he gulped in the clean, cold air outside the house, he was slowly losing the dizzying feeling of overwhelming fear that had attacked him inside. But he could not bring himself to enter that room again. In the end, he knew, he had to, if he ever wanted to find out what exactly had happened there. But not now.

For the moment, he decided to follow the footsteps towards the little copse. Perhaps someone had survived the attack, even though it looked as if whoever had managed to flee from the house had frantically tried to escape a cruel pack of hunting predators. Twigs were broken and plants trampled down. Here and there, Snape found a spot where the human prey had stumbled and fallen down leaving deep scratch marks on the ground, throwing up bits and pieces of moss and dirt. Several other footsteps – those of the hunters? – drew circles around this obvious agony. Now and then, there were dark droplets in the dirt. Blood? What, _what _had happened here?

Some minutes later, he found the answer. On a little clearing almost at the centre of the wood it seemed, Snape detected something that, at first sight, looked like a heap of abandoned clothes. He did not step into the clearing right away. He circled warily around it, but nobody was there. So Snape stepped closer and inspected the supposedly discarded clothes. He would never forget the horror etched into the features of the body he found instead.

Snape put the little clearing under a concealing spell and turned back to the house. Later he would call the authorities, but for now, he needed time to inspect the scene of the crime without the interference of others. Perhaps he would be able to find some of the results of the research Othello McDougal had done; perhaps he could also find some hints as to who had done these murders.

When he reached the little house, the sun had set. This didn't make it easier to enter the kitchen again. However, he had to. First, he inspected the wet marks he found on the kitchen floor. There were at least five different sets, one of which was those of bare feet. Othello's? Snape forced himself to have a long look at the body of the poor woman. She had been killed quite conventionally with a sharp knife. No magic. Her dying had apparently taken some time. They had cut her open bit by bit. No mercy. However, he could not detect any hint as to who had done that to her.

Snape searched the little house from top to bottom but he found nothing that told him who the attackers might have been. The other rooms were silent, deserted, and impeccably clean. When Snape had convinced himself that nobody but he himself was there, he returned to Othello's study, which was on the ground floor next to the living room. There he found a heavy tome flipped open. Next to it lay a piece of parchment on which someone had scribbled some notes: _Gorm the Great closed the doors. Possessed the "special gift". Powerful magic from others is needed to control it. Caster was probably sacrificed in the "Closing Ritual." "Closing Ritual" must be performed in the centre of the ancient sign. This is the gateway. _

Special gift? What could that be, Snape wondered. Perhaps he would find the answer in the ancient book. He started to read. _At the_ _time of the new moon, Gorm strode down the winding ladder into the bowels of the earth, to the abyss were the Goddess dwells. _Snape was instantly drawn into the mesmerising story of Gorm the Great_._ When he had finished reading, he sat there, thinking hard. Something was missing in that story, but he could not quite lay a finger on it. And what could that "special gift" be? His face went ashen when the answer dawned on him.

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**A/N** A thousand thanks to my fabulous beta xfafafabulous and to my equally fabulous second-in-command, gaelicgirl06. :-)


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